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JANSE DOUW’S 
DESCENDANTS 

HUMPHREYS 







JANSE DOUW’S 
DESCENDANTS 

BY 

IDA F. HUMPHREYS 



Publishers 


DORRANCE Philadelphia 





















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Janse Douw’s Descendants 


i 

In the quiet days toward the end of the last 
century, when automobiles were not yet spinning 
through the city streets and country roads, and 
before the many foreign faces had so changed the 
aspect of our country, there were few more un¬ 
troubled spots than Setauket, a quaint, shady old 
port on the Eastern coast. The little place seldom 
looked prettier than it did in early autumn, when 
gentians and goldenrod had succeeded to daisies 
and buttercups in the pastures—and Setauket 
still had pastures—and when the distant horizons 
began to be softened by that purple haziness that 
seems like a bloom upon the ripened fruit of the 
year. The handsome residence of Ex-Secretary 
Casgrove showed to especial advantage; and the 
fine lawn and glowing beds of flowers were sure 
to call forth admiring comments from the occu¬ 
pants of the carriages that drove down Bedford 
Street on any of these pleasant afternoons. 
People who turned their heads to seize again the 
inviting picture, were quite likely to remind each 
other of the important item of intelligence con¬ 
tained in the morning paper, as explaining the 
more inhabitable air about the place. The same 
people would be apt, in continuing their drive, to 
look with equal or greater interest at the old Dow 
mansion, which was too solid and imposing not 


8 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


to hold its own against upstart elegance, in spite 
of its gloomy appearance. 

The first coming of Secretary Casgrove to 
Setauket in search of a quiet spot in which to 
pass his summers, or more strictly speaking, 
those parts of the year when he was not in Wash¬ 
ington or abroad, had stirred that small portion 
of the polite world to its center. But when he pur¬ 
chased the old Sprague place, lying in neglected, 
weedy gardens on the same street with the Dow 
mansion, the townspeople were almost disposed to 
regret his coming, when they were forced to look 
on at the irreverent way in which he transformed 
the spot, doing away with one of their landmarks. 
For these two old dwellings, built with so much 
of fine, burgher-like respectability, and suggestive 
of past consequence, had been a distinctive feature 
of the village; and a lively fancy had found it 
easy to conjure up from their appearance some¬ 
thing of its vanished history. 

And yet the interest felt in these two old places 
was of an entirely different character, and the 
open lawns and sunshiny aspect of the one were 
typical of its freedom from the dark family annals 
of which the other house seemed to keep counsel 
within the confines of its high iron fences, and in 
the midst of its dense shrubberies. 

On this lovely day in August there was, as it 
happened, a natural connection of ideas between 
the two; for the same morning journal that had 
enlightened the village world as to the fact of 
the great man’s presence among them, had pub¬ 
lished the names of his guests, and among them 
that bright, well-known society woman, Mrs. 
Frank Dow. John Hayden, this lady’s father, 
had always been a confrere of Casgrove’s; and the 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 9 


latter, with sons married, had made Millie Hay¬ 
den an especial pet and favorite. It was when 
trying to fill the void left in his house by the 
daughter he had lost, that Millie Hayden had first 
met her future husband, the widow Dow’s only 
son, Frank. The marriage which soon resulted, 
was at first kindly received by the widow; hut it 
was not long before trouble arose that caused 
almost a complete break between mother and son. 
Current gossip, flashing by a sort of telegraphy 
through the upper social strata of the little port, 
predicted that the elder Mrs. Dow was still too 
angry to take any notice of her daughter-in-law’s 
coming. 

“Don’t you know? It’s a very strange thing. 
Comes, it is said, from his having speculated with 
some of the Dow property. Yes, nobody under¬ 
stands it, for everybody supposed Frank was to 
have the Dow property, as a matter of course. 
No, Nathaniel wouldn’t look at it. It was left 
unreservedly to the widow, you know.” So ran 
gossip. “Singular she should be so miserly. It 
is said she lives clear within her income. And 
people thought she quite worshipped Frank! But 
she loves her ducats more, it seems.” 

The widow Dow, meantime, quite unconscious 
of being in this case the object of conjecture, 
though well inured to it in general, was seated 
near one of the windows in the large sitting-room 
of Dow House, intent upon the making of some 
articles that from their plain, rough texture were 
evidently garments for the poor. There was 
noticeable about her as she turned and shaped 
them a brisk energy. 

She was thinking of rather a lively discussion 
she had had with one of the Board of Directors 


10 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


of the Quissette Orphan Asylum in regard to a 
step those gentlemen had contemplated. The 
widow had decidedly objected to it from the first, 
and she shook her head as she thought it over, 
fortifying her position with new arguments she 
would bring to bear. There was not much doubt 
that when these potential utterances should be 
heard they would have their due weight. So ab¬ 
sorbed had she become in her thoughts that she 
did not notice how rapidly the sky was clouding 
over. Outside of the window a large elm swayed 
and swept its long, pendulous green branches 
down till they sometimes touched the pane; but 
the widow paid no heed until she was startled by 
the slamming of a blind close beside her. The 
tall trees bent and surged in the sudden gust of 
wind that brought the drops with it. Mrs. Dow 
rose to push back the shutter, and as she did so 
she saw a carriage passing swiftly, drawn by two 
slender, finely-groomed black horses. The coach¬ 
man wore livery, and the vehicle had two occu¬ 
pants : a gentleman with a grey beard, and a young 
girl who was endeavoring with difficulty to throw 
about her shoulders a light wrap that fluttered 
in the breeze. 

At this moment Eliza Jakway entered from the 
garden, where she had been directing the opera¬ 
tions of a new gardener. The supervision of this 
work had been given over to her, as she was fond 
of flowers and had an inborn skill in their nurture. 
It was due to her that the old place was kept 
up with a neatness that did much to rob it, in the 
eyes of the more youthful and impressionable part 
of the population, of the mystery that had so 
long clustered around it. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 11 


And though a few bright glimpses were about 
all that reached the eye of the outside world 
through the jealous guardianship of the close 
fences and high, wide-spreading trees, inside the 
generally improved effect certainly did her ef¬ 
forts credit. Nature was not to be cheated out of 
this hour of her proud maturity, even in the 
shadow of this memory-haunted old house; and 
the garden ran riot in color. The rows of trained 
sunflowers at the farther end were in their full 
perfection, turning out quaint, big discs, like 
moony, rustic faces, toward the beholder; clematis 
massed its richness over the trellis between the 
lawn and garden, nasturtiums and other autumnal 
flowers blossomed in profusion, and rivalled, with 
their varied shades, the glowing border of ger¬ 
anium that furnished a contrast to the still fresh 
green of the lawn by its line of vivid scarlet, re¬ 
lieved against the grey masonry of one side of 
the house. 

They had been left without a gardener for sev¬ 
eral weeks, as the last man, a Scotchman with 
the failings of his race, had gone on a more pro¬ 
tracted spree than usual, and Mrs. Dow had been 
obliged to discharge him. The new hand, a 
taciturn man, with the most of his face concealed 
by a heavy beard, had given his young mistress 
some trouble. He seemed to her surly and in¬ 
attentive; then surprised her by asking what 
relation she might be to the lady of the house. 

“I am her cousin/’ the girl replied, manifest¬ 
ing a touch of resentment that the furtive obser¬ 
vation of which she had been conscious had had 
the boldness to express itself in words. “Why 
did you care to know?” she asked, in her turn. 

The man gave an awkward attempt at a laugh 


12 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


as lie turned away. “No offense, Miss. I was 
only a bit curious. You see I hardly thought you 
could be her daughter; you and she don’t look so 
much alike.” 

“When did you see Mrs. Dow? I wasn’t aware 
you knew her by sight,” said the young lady, 
quickly, displeased by the man’s way, she hardly 
knew why. 

“No, I never knew her,” he made haste to say, 
rather eagerly. “I saw her once when I put 
in here on a boat. It was a smack from New 
Bedford.” 

“Oh!” said the girl. The explanation seemed 
to her reasonable. It allayed her suspicions. 

“They told me then she was the beauty of the 
village,” added the man. “You ain’t much like 
her, Miss.” 

“You think differently from most people. I 
am generally considered very much like her,” 
Eliza said, with youthful pique she was all the 
more ready to betray in that she had already 
so little liked her colloquist. Receiving no an¬ 
swer she waived aside the subject with a dignity 
intended to emphasize this feeling, as she re¬ 
peated her instructions with great particularity. 
The whistle of a locomotive that just then pierced 
the air, evidently entering the precincts of the 
little town, and the blue wreaths of smoke that 
could be seen curling above the treetops, changed 
the current of her thoughts. As she looked 
around, she became aware of the approach of the 
storm. 

“Well, you needn’t mind that now; you can’t 
work long,” she said, hurriedly. “I see it is go¬ 
ing to rain. You may begin here tomorrow,” and 
she left him tranquilly turning up the soil in the 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 13 


borders, and hastened toward the house, running 
before the fast coming drops. That whistle had 
told of possibilities that filled her mind with 
pleasurable anticipations. 

She was met by her cousin’s voice as she en¬ 
tered the house. “Run, Eliza, and see who that 
was! Upon my word, I believe it was Millie 
Dow,” said the widow, who, being the one in 
Setauket most interested, was naturally one of 
the few who had not seen the morning’s announce¬ 
ment. If, remembering that tragedy of the past, 
the stranger should look for a heroine of romance 
in Mrs. Dow, his visions would be very likely to 
crumble at once at the sound of her clear, but 
eminently practical tone of voice. And, indeed, 
few people lived more emphatically in an every¬ 
day world of realities than she. 

Eliza did as she was requested; but, though she 
obligingly flattened her delicate nose against the 
pane she could only see the shining, rapidly re¬ 
volving wheels, and the two heads over the back 
of the carriage, as it disappeared in the distance. 
The people on Bedford Street were beginning to 
put up their umbrellas. One of these last stopped 
in front of the gate and, with a pair of long legs 
beneath, came in between the two stone posts with 
the carved lions that gave such an imposing aspect 
to the entrance. 

“Who was that with our 'distinguished fellow 
townsman’ Nat?” called out the widow, on hear¬ 
ing the front door open. 

“Not having seen the lady’s face, I can only 
surmise; but upon the authority of the 'Daily 
Banner,’ I should say it must have been a con¬ 
nection of yours, Aunt Florence,” returned the 


14 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


voice from outside, where Nathaniel was putting 
his umbrella into the hat-rack. 

“So we thought. What is she here for, do you 
suppose?” 

“Bearding the lion in his den, I should judge,” 
said the newcomer, as he emerged from the hall. 
“But I don’t pretend to decipher the enigma. 
You must find some other Daniel.” 

As well as could he seen in the growing dusk of 
the room he was a substantial looking young 
man, with light hair curling slightly over a rather 
large head, and with an open, candid look and 
careless ease, that, refined, as they were, by a 
different life and higher culture, yet told of a sea¬ 
faring ancestry. His pleasantry was met by a 
laugh from the lion, who had let her work fall, 
and now looked somewhat formidable, as she be¬ 
came fixed in a self-forgetful attitude. Eliza had 
been flying about the house with one of the maids 
to see that the windows on the side from which 
the storm came were closed. As she came in now 
her heart w T as beating more rapidly than usual, 
and her color was brighter; whether from the 
quick descent and exertion or from some other 
cause, it would be hard to say. Nathaniel’s glance 
of expectancy, which had so far been unrewarded 
since his entrance, brightened into a particularly 
pleasant smile of greeting in response to her own. 

“I saw you out in the garden, as I came over 
through the dummytrack,” he said, designating 
a short cut to that part of the town much tra¬ 
versed by the men who went in and out of the 
city upon business daily. It was not a suggestive 
remark, yet something in the manner of saying 
it was sufficient to deepen Eliza’s ready color. 
She looked prettier, he thought, than he had ever 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 15 


seen her before, as she stood laying off her scoop 
hat and garden gloves, with her cheeks rosy from 
exercise, and a great bunch of sweet peas in the 
bodice of her white dress. 

“I didn’t see you,” she smiled. “I was out 
directing our new gardener.” 

4 4 What sort of a man does he seem to be, 
Eliza?” asked the widow, rousing from her 
reverie. 

“Decidedly stupid, I should say,” said Eliza. 
“I told him several times about things, but I 
don’t believe he knows now what I wanted of 
him. He watched me in rather an odd way, I 
thought, and seemed so inquisitive. He seemed 
to be thinking more of me than of what I was 
saying. ’ ’ 

“You shouldn’t be so hard upon him for such 
a purely natural failing,” interposed Nathaniel. 

Eliza laughed and blushed consciously, wrink¬ 
ling the clear line of her eyebrows to dispose of 
the blush. 

“I’m afraid we shan’t feel the same confidence 
in him that we did in Andrew,” said she, with 
some embarrassment. Her secluded life had made 
her diffident, and she was unused to parrying 
compliments. “I don’t know how it would be if 
we were to be left alone with him.” 

“Nat mustn’t go and leave us. He must settle 
down here. I’ve always told him it was the place 
for him,” said Mrs. Dow, with an eye on Na¬ 
thaniel. The friendly glances these young people 
were exchanging were not lost upon her. The 
young man only laughed as he went out into the 
hall on the way to his own room. He was used to 
being talked at in this way by his aunt. “What 
is his name?” she added, to her cousin. 


16 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


“Martin, lie said. Oh, here he is now! What 
can he want of me?” And Miss Jakway rose, 
and, with an air of some vexation, went out upon 
the veranda. At the first sound of the man’s gruff 
voice the woman inside lifted her head with a sud¬ 
den start. She walked far enough to catch sight 
of the slouching, roughly-dressed figure of the 
man who stood talking with Eliza, then turned 
away. 

“Strange,” murmured she, “that those old 
memories should be so stirred tonight. There 
seems to be something in the air. No, it can be 
only fancy,” and when the young lady came in 
the blinds were drawn down, and a bright light 
had taken the place of the darkening prospect 
outside and the gathering dimness within. 

“I think I understand this move, Eliza,” said 
her cousin. “Frank expects that Millie and I 
will meet somewhere, that Millie’s pretty face 
will plead for her, and the old woman’s heart 
will be softened. I wonder what has become of 
that ungrateful boy of mine, and why he didn’t 
come with her. I suppose he’s still occupied with 
his mines, or some other wild scheme. Well, at 
any rate, you must go up there and call, Eliza.” 

“Don’t you intend to go yourself, Cousin 
Florence!” 

“No, if she wants to see me she can come 
here. I do not intend to apologize for what I have 
said. I meant it. I think that she, in her selfish 
ambition, and that worldly, unscrupulous father 
of hers, are having a very bad influence over 
Frank. I am very sorry to see it. I cannot for¬ 
give them for it.” 

Frank Dow had been a boy of five or six years 
when his mother—this woman sitting so quietly 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 17 


in the large, comfortable room—had had the iron 
hand of the law laid upon her, and had been tried 
for the murder of her husband, who had been mys¬ 
teriously shot in his own garden. She had been 
acquitted after a hard contest, for appearances 
were against her. But, though at first some among 
the large and indifferent public had expressed 
doubts of the justice of the verdict, the talk about 
her had soon died out, excepting for a whisper 
now and then in the ears of a stranger of that 
tragedy of the past. But the woman’s soul had 
been too deeply seared by the terrible ordeal 
through which she had passed for her ever to be 
quite herself again, and she had sought an un¬ 
wholesome seclusion from the world, she and her 
husband’s sister, Margaret Dow, who had stood 
staunchly by her through it all, growing in time 
a little peculiar and morbid from their mode of 
life, as was almost inevitable. 

Twenty years had elapsed since this tragic 
event, and Dow House, as it had come to be 
called in concession to its being the nearest to a 
manor house in the vicinity, still stood dark and 
silent behind its tall, iron fences, and in the 
shade of its fine old trees. A high monument 
had been erected to the memory of Thomas Dow, 
in among the other tall tombstones in the grave¬ 
yard opposite, and its broken marble shaft could 
generally be seen gleaming through the dusk of 
evening, and often gave Eliza Jakway, whom Mrs. 
Dow had later taken to live with her as a com¬ 
panion, a start as she looked out and saw it. Yet 
there was a sort of strange companionship about 
it too, as if the careless, free, kindly man were 
still among them, and the girl, who found her life 
odd and lonely, had not that kind of timidity. It 


18 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


was the widow who could never get over a slight 
repugnance to the place, that had its origin, per¬ 
haps, in an awe thjat had survived girlhood for 
the spot of all others where one was least able 
to forget the dark annals of the family. 

There was one person, however, to whom Dow 
House had never seemed dark and forbidding. 
This was the widow’s son, who, according to his 
stepfather’s wishes, had been always known by 
the name of Dow. He had grown to be a tall, 
fine-looking, clever young fellow, with his moth¬ 
er’s bright, resolute spirit, but with an enthu¬ 
siastic, visionary element in him such as she had 
never had. Perhaps the influence of the shut-in 
old house, with its corners haunted sometimes by 
idle myths, sometimes by ghostly memories, had 
done much to foster this. But, at least he loved 
the old place, and remembering Thomas Dow’s 
frequent promises to him, and how great a favor¬ 
ite he had been with him, he regarded this as a 
right. It was like no other place to him, with its 
full and rich, though sombre, background of asso¬ 
ciations, and he did not realize that it was a 
shadowy spot. His mother had seen this with a 
mixture of pleasure and regret; pleasure that 
home had been so dear to him, yet regret for 
the direction in which his wishes so plainly 
pointed. 

“Frank, you must make your own fortune. 
Don’t expect or look for anything from the past, 
excepting what little came from your father, of 
course. I thank Heaven you are a Nicholls,” she 
told him, in her decided way. “There is nothing 
I have a more thorough contempt for than these 
old fossilized families who have obtained pos¬ 
session of a little money and cling to it, to any 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 19 


extent, generation in and out. It’s a man’s privi¬ 
lege to make his own way. And the Dow property 
was never honest gains. I hope you will never 
soil your fingers with it.” 

Life had been too bright to the young man, too 
full of promise and of that courage of hope and 
confidence that makes it easy for the young to 
conquer all things for themselves, for him to at¬ 
tach any great importance to this prohibition. 
Difficult as it was to reconcile himself to what 
he deemed a womanish scruple, he had learned 
to respect it, and to urge her no more upon the 
subject. When he grew older and returned from 
college his mother had entrusted the management 
of the property, as well as of her own small for¬ 
tune, to his care, feeling, as a widowed mother 
naturally would, a fond pride in being able to 
avail herself, at last, of the prop and stay that 
she trusts will henceforth be hers. 

Things had gone on so for a year or two when 
Frank, during a short stay of a few weeks in the 
autumn in Setauket, had responded to an invita¬ 
tion to pass the evening at Secretary Casgrove’s, 
and had there made the acquaintance of the young 
lady whom he soon afterwards married. Millie 
Hayden was the daughter of a man who was one 
of a type, mixed politician, financier, statesman, 
adventurer, able to pull wires in many different 
directions and also to exert some genuine influence 
founded on real abilities in several, perhaps more 
peculiarly a product of our own state of society 
than of that of any other land. One of the first 
effects of his new relationship—an uncongenial 
and disappointing one to the widow, though she 
had striven to make the best of it—was to un¬ 
settle Frank Dow in his plans and purposes, and 


20 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


persuade Mm to abandon the law and unite in the 
promising western speculations in which his 
father-in-law was already deeply interested. Mrs. 
Dow grew more and more indignant at the new 
course of things. It seemed to her hard, indeed, 
that her son should be so completely under the 
domination of the opinions and wishes of 
others, and should disregard her own; that son to 
whom she had looked for consolation, as her only 
stay in life and the comfort of her old age. To 
Frank, her firmness in regard to the house had 
been the first cause of alienation between them. 
He could not help feeling that his mother had not 
had his interests at heart as deeply as she should 
have had when she could give preference to a 
mere whim of her own to his disadvantage. TMs 
feeling of injury had unconsciously rankled, and 
it had left him more open to the unwise repre¬ 
sentations of his wife and the interested counsels 
of his father-in-law. But it was not until Mrs. 
Dow found that Frank, in his mining speculations, 
had managed to implicate the Dow property, 
which he held in trust, that her son encountered 
an inflexibility of purpose and principle such as 
he had known little of before. She would listen 
to no palliation, consent to no compromise, believe 
in no visions of future returns, think of accepting 
none. 

4 ‘You had no right to touch it, Frank,’’ she 
said. “Of what I have myself I give you all I 
can and welcome. But this money I have always 
regarded as a trust. It is Dow money, not ours. 
It was ill-gotten gains, always. I cannot bear to 
have you taint your fingers with it. I will not 
have it,. Frank, and the only way is to put the 
temptation out of your reach. There was no 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 21 


excuse for your using it. You understood per¬ 
fectly how I regarded this. Have I not told you 
how I felt!” 

It seemed to her son like an absurd supersti¬ 
tion, quite unworthy of a woman of her strength 
of mind, but he found no way of combating it. 
He had trusted that the sequel would so justify his 
course by the success of his ventures as to over¬ 
come his mother’s opposition; but the sequel 
lagged and her conduct at this juncture made it 
plain that he need indulge in no such hope. When 
she called upon his cousin Nathaniel to become 
her man of business, he was so deeply chagrined 
and so bitterly aggrieved at what he considered 
the injustice she showed toward him, that almost 
a complete break had ensued between mother and 
son. In spite of his tendency toward extrava¬ 
gance, Frank Dow was a son to be proud of; and 
his mother had hitherto shown herself to be so 
fond and indulgent that her sudden severity seem¬ 
ed as uncalled for as it was strange. Was it 
remorse! questioned the curious, knowing the 


n 


It was the custom to have dinner late at the 
Dow’s; and as Nathaniel had been expected, the 
widow had made extra preparations for him and 
had his favorite dishes on the table. 

His coming seemed to infuse new life into the 
house. Aunt Margaret Dow, now a sallow-faced 
woman of about fifty, always brightened, as the 
widow did, at Nathaniel’s presence. She had 
been injured some years since in getting out of 
a carriage by the sudden starting of a pair of 
high-mettled horses, and walked with the assist¬ 
ance of a cane. She came hobbling in, smiling 
and holding out her hand in delighted greeting. 
Both she and the widow looked upon Nathaniel 
as the real head of the house, and destined him, 
in their wishes and plans, to be its future owner. 

“How goes the city, Nat?” the widow inquired, 
as they sat down to the dinner table. 

‘ 4 The city is teeming and humming like a hive, ’ ’ 
said the young man, “men rushing in every dif¬ 
ferent direction, everywhere a perfect drive and 
push. When I get into the crowd I drive and rush 
with them, without thinking why I do it. It is 
difficult to be a looker-on in New York. One finds 
oneself borne along the current. It seems like 
a sort of Elysium to get out here, out of the rush 
and roar. One would have ten years’ additional 
lease of life to live here.” 

“That’s what I’ve always been telling you,” 
said Mrs. Dow, smiling with eager persuasiveness. 

22 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 23 


“There’s room for a promising young lawyer in 
Setauket. I’ve always told you so.” 

“Settle down and be a country attorney,’’ 
smiled Nathaniel. “ Where’d be the promise 
then, Aunt Florence? Jennings doesn’t appear 
any too prosperous.” 

“But why do you take Jennings as a criterion?” 
remonstrated she. “Jennings is a skin-flint and 
everybody knows it. Such men as he never do 
well anywhere. It is only just retribution that 
they should not.” Jennings was the synonym 
for all that was mean and underhand among the 
legal fraternity of Setauket. “But the Suydams, 
father and son, seem to succeed.” 

“With everything in their favor,” said he, as 
he carved the roast of mutton. “They were 
naturally located here because all their interests 
were here and it gave them an advantage such 
as no other man could obtain. Besides, they are 
neither of them dependent upon their profession. ’ ’ 

“Nor need you be,” she found time to say. He 
rejected it all laughingly, taking no notice of her 
last remark. 

“They are as exceptional as Jennings,” said 
he. “Jennings is a product. Such a man as he 
required favorable conditions. You’re too primi¬ 
tive out here. Think of having your flour ground 
by a tidemill!” 

“Oh, we don’t! Not now,” objected Eliza 
Jakway, not able to keep silent longer. 

“Don’t you? Well, you did a few years ago. 
No, my mind is imbued with too much sense of 
the power they possess down here to choke the 
breath of life out of anything like progress, to 
dare to try the experiment. Any warm human 


24 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


faculties are doomed to inevitable rust in Suf¬ 
folk, no matter bow hopefully they start off.” 

Eliza Jakway listened silently. So that was 
the way be looked at them, repudiating Suffolk 
ways and Suffolk for himself! The inference was 
certainly not polite. She had not known Mr. 
Nathaniel Dow long. It was only since he had 
been made the widow’s man of business that she 
had known him at all; and it was only lately, 
since the heated term had invested their situa¬ 
tion on the seashore with attractions that spoke 
for themselves, and the widow’s invitations had 
been more pressing for him to prolong his stay 
when he came, that his visits had been anything 
but brief and occasional. Before that, Mrs. Dow 
had been wont to run up to the city upon any 
business errands. 

The New Yorker was unaware that his view 
of this most old fogy of communities could be 
regarded as anything but matter-of-course, 
though he considered that the old-fogyism was 
not without a picturesqueness that recommended 
it to artists, and a peacefulness that made a few 
days passed there exceedingly restful to the 
nerves of city people. 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t be any better than Jen¬ 
nings if I subjected myself to the same in¬ 
fluences,” continued he. “The life in a country 
town is narrowing, if it is conducive to longevity; 
and I believe there ’s even some doubt upon that 
score. No, I take issue with Cowper. I think 
God made the town as well as the country, and 
he made it a good deal broader. Whose manu¬ 
facture is this salad, Aunt Florence? It does 
them credit, whosever it is.” 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 25 


“You must give Eliza all the credit of that,” 
said Mrs. Dow. “In fact, you can give her credit 
safely for a good many things. I wonder some 
man doesn’t find out her value. However, it is 
well for me they don’t.” 

Eliza Jakway was especially annoyed to have 
attention called to her in this way. She colored 
painfully. She felt provincial to the tips of her 
fingers, although the young man laughed and 
made some light remark to the effect that prob¬ 
ably the fact had not been unsuspected. 

“It doesn’t take breadth of mind to make a 
good salad, Mr. Dow,” said she, rather to his 
surprise; and he saw that there was something 
of defiance in the little way in which she bridled 
as she said it. 

“Well, now I think it does,” he objected, won¬ 
dering what it was she was sensitive about. He 
had not thought of her as coming under the stric¬ 
tures upon Suffolk products, any more than of 
his aunt Florence. “Some of the greatest wits 
and literary men have been very proud of their 
success in concocting salads. I take it it’s rather 
a test of a high order of intelligence. ’ ’ 

Eliza did not answer, and at this point they 
heard a hearty voice in the hall and Capt. Jakway, 
Mrs. Dow’s father, came in for his evening game 
of cards, reporting, as he doffed his tarpaulins, 
that the violence of the storm was now over. 

Tom Dow, who had been rather a wild young 
fellow, had married a young girl from among 
the common fisher population of the coast. In 
those early days she had often been seen helping 
her father, as a boy would have done, to run the 
sail ferry from the port to the small island in 
the bay; for, by such means as this, like many 


26 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


old salts, the Captain had been obliged to eke out 
his rather scanty livelihood. After Florence’s 
first marriage and widowhood, there had been no 
necessity for her doing this, and one after another 
of the Captain’s numerous nephews had grown 
up to temporarily fill the place. But she had not 
lost her skill; and Tom Dow’s fancy had been 
caught when encountering the pretty widow in 
her light boating costume sauntering up from 
the docks with her oars on her shoulder, having 
returned from skimming the bay and adjacent 
waters in the small craft that she managed her¬ 
self. As one looked at Margaret Dow now, in 
her sallow middle age, it was hard to realize that 
she and her sister Cornelia had been so antagonis¬ 
tic to their brother’s choice, designating these ac¬ 
complishments as Amazonian, and condemning 
them, as they did the love of dress, and the free 
lively manners that had gathered around the 
youthful and dashing widow a numerous train of 
friends and admirers. 

These had been young men in the same class 
of life as herself; and it was well known that 
when Tom Dow began to pay her attention she 
was the same as engaged to a young sailor named 
Jarvis Marshall. The disappointment and bit¬ 
terness of this young Marshall had been extreme 
when his rich rival had been finally victorious, 
and the girl had broken faith with him, asserting 
her right to do so with a haughty independence 
that partly proceeded from a restive conscience. 
She had been too much dazzled to resist the bright 
visions fancy painted of social triumphs and 
pleasures, while her heart was completely taken 
captive by her lover’s many attractions. For 
Tom Dow had plenty of personal charm, and her 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 27 


untutored imagination was drawn rather than 
otherwise by his dare-devil reputation, for Mrs. 
Nicholls was a woman of spirit, and liked spirit 
in others. 

It seemed like a mockery to talk of spirit after 
all these darkened, terrible years; yet Florence 
Dow was still a handsome woman, even though 
she showed some signs of the severe trial she had 
been through. Something of the old coquetry and 
pride in her appearance was suggested in the way 
that her mourning costume was skillfully adapted 
to set off her broad, but still trim and shapely 
figure; while the soft white with which she re¬ 
lieved its sombreness at the throat framed the 
rich brunette coloring of her face in the most 
effective way. 

As for the old sailor himself, he was now a hale 
old man of seventy, and during his daughter’s 
troubles had been her strongest support; and in 
the isolation of the years that had followed, a 
constant link with the free, simple life of her girl¬ 
hood, which more than anything else had had the 
effect of a pure salt breeze in blowing away the 
miasmas of morbid feeling which were apt to 
gain undue ascendancy over her. “No one knows 
what Pa has been to me,” she often said, with 
tears in her eyes, as she caught sight of his 
sturdy, honest old figure. 

“What’s the news, Mr. Dow?” asked the Cap¬ 
tain, cheerily, as he seated himself in an easy 
chair, and Nathaniel opened out the large daily 
he had brought down with him from the city. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Let us see; 'disasters by 
flood and fire,’ ” the latter said. “The telegraphic 
news seems to be a record of coast storms and 
wrecks. Here’s a clipper-ship ashore in a fog, 


28 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

a steamer three days out and not been heard from 
—-I don’t know what else. It gives a man a queer 
idea of the world he lives in to glance over the 
columns of a daily paper.” 

“It’s all that plaguey comet,” said the Captain, 
disposed to attribute all that went wrong to this 
one agency, as to a sort of huge scapegoat; be¬ 
ing especially of opinion that a comet that kept 
such unseasonable hours must be in league with 
all powers of diablerie. 

They looked a very comfortable circle, indeed, 
as they sat down to a game of cards. And, how¬ 
ler. gloomy it might be outwardly, there was 
within the comfort that only seems to belong to 
large dwellings; a generous air only possible to 
wide halls and spacious apartments. All were 
playing, Eliza having been obliged to put down 
her fancy work, Nathaniel his paper, for the old 
sailor always demanded the good, old-fashioned 
round game of seven-up, looking forward to it 
from one evening to another with a keenness of 
relish only possible to those who have lived out 
the active interests and more absorbing emotions 
of life. 

If anyone had told Margaret Dow, in days of 
yore, that she also would come to count upon these 
games as among the chief amusements of her life 
she would probably have laughed the idea to 
scorn; yet enjoy them she did, with a childish 
pleasure almost as good to watch as the old 
sailor’s keen hilarity, and thought little of the 
Captain’s singular vernacular and his big, horny 
hands. Nor did she appear to mind the boisterous 
form that his enjoyment assumed, even though he 
shouted rather than spoke in the excitement of 
play, and brought his hand down when he pro- 


JANSE DOTJW’S DESCENDANTS 29 


duced a telling card with a force that made the 
slight table quiver, and drove Nathaniel, whose 
nerves were not as well inured to Capt. Jakway’s 
style of playing as those of the rest, to laughingly 
shake his own fingers as if they had just suffered 
the ringing contact. 

Yet there were unseen shadows, too; ghosts 
that would not be laid. Eliza could not forget 
that alienation between mother and son; it seemed 
to her now that she had been selfish to be unwill¬ 
ing to contribute, as far as lay in her power, 
toward a better understanding. What better mis¬ 
sion could come to her, in her aimless and insig¬ 
nificant life—Eliza had imbibed enough of modern 
thought from reading to feel her own life cul¬ 
pably aimless—than healing this sore breach? 
She was a warm-hearted little thing, and had had 
no experience of the way that contact with the 
world and especially the lapse of time hardens 
our sensibilities, and enables us to bear with forti¬ 
tude the estrangements that advancing years are 
so apt to bring with them. As she thought of all 
this, so thoughtful and sweet a look suddenly 
kindled her downcast face that Nathaniel's atten¬ 
tion was arrested as by something altogether new 
to his perceptions. 

Eliza Jakway possessed something of the same 
dark beauty as her cousin, but it was at the same 
time less perfect and more refined; and making all 
allowance for difference of age there was an im¬ 
maturity about this slight, graceful girl, that was 
due to her quiet, secluded life, and that made her 
a woman very unlike what the older one must have 
been at twenty. There was this same coolness 
and softer shading about her hair and eyes, which 
were only brown where Mrs. Dow’s were of raven 


30 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


blackness; as if she were a reflex of the more 
brilliant and glowing youth of her cousin. It was 
not unusual for her to have moments of abstrac¬ 
tion; and the old Captain now rapped her back 
into a consciousness of what was going on around, 
beating on the table, and shouting to her ener¬ 
getically that it was her turn to play. 

“Come, come,’’ said he. “Attend to what’s 
in hand. You’ve got a chance to sell. Now, don’t 
you let ’em beat you down! Put all your wits 
to work. Don’t let’s have any wool-gathering 
around here.” 

Eliza laughed and awoke to the idea that she 
was under observation with a perceptible start; 
and as she took up her cards and tried to advise 
herself as to the run of the game, she for the first 
time encountered Nathaniel’s gaze. Nathaniel 
was as much troubled at this discovery as she. 
He hoped he had not made her any more shy and 
self-conscious, he thought, vexed at himself, for 
he had found her unapproachable enough before. 
He did admire her, but he had not meant to spoil 
her by letting her see it. He had leaned back 
before, taking his part with a tolerant good¬ 
nature, studying the scene and the characters 
about him. Now he threw himself into the game 
with well-feigned ardor, competing sharply with 
the captain over every point, bluffing it with rash 
intrepidity and adding vastly to its liveliness and 
interest. 

Eliza was glad when the game came to an end 
and she was free to seek the friendly darkness of 
the veranda outside. Tom Dow’s massive monu¬ 
ment was gleaming white across the way. That 
monument exercised a sort of witchery over 
Eliza’s mind. She was wondering at it all to- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 31 


night, wondering at the mystery of it, inwardly 
rebelling, in fact. The past has its tyrannical 
influence over the most of us; and she was think¬ 
ing how the vigorous, active natures that went 
before had lived out their lives, sowing a seed 
of subtle results under which the present genera¬ 
tion must labor. Hearing a step approaching, she 
was both disappointed and relieved to find that 
the tall figure that darkened the doorway was that 
of Miss Dow. 

i < There are an unusual number of lights on the 
Sound,’ 9 said that lady, as she moved along, lean¬ 
ing on her cane, her black silk dress faintly rust¬ 
ling, and seated herself in one of the porch chairs. 
“I don’t feel like going up to my room quite 
yet. I don’t know—I’ve felt rather nervous to¬ 
day. And then I thought I’d come out and let 
Florence and Nathaniel discuss business matters, 
if they wish to.” There was a moment’s pause. 
“I believe I ought not to have let Becky talk to 
me,” she continued. “I don’t often notice her 
chatter; but when she was cleaning my room to¬ 
day, I couldn’t help her running on about some 
of the old signs, and noises the servants have 
heard lately—tapping at the wing door, and one 
of the girls said she heard a footstep in the old 
yellow room; and she went in there and it was 
quite vacant. Of course it is all absurd, and the 
poor, credulous things will talk in that way 
(though Sarah is too intelligent a girl to allow 
herself to). She ought to check the other servants, 
on the contrary!” Sarah was the cook. “But it 
makes me feel a little fidgety, and I confess I 
didn’t like to sit alone,” and she laughed an apolo¬ 
getic little laugh, as people do when they are 
ashamed of betraying some weakness of mind. 


32 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


“Yes, it is infectious,” said Eliza, with a little 
shiver, not able wholly to resist the dark sugges¬ 
tions thus conjured up. “It is so easy to make 
oneself nervous and fanciful by listening to such 
things. Nothing we really know is very bad; it’s 
only things that are suggested. It often seems to 
me that to live in this house is enough to take 
away all one’s natural courage and common- 
sense, it is so eerie and ghostly. How can we be 
like other people in such an atmosphere?” 

“But, my dear,” responded the older woman, 
sinking her voice, “there have been two deaths 
in the neighborhood, and I never knew the old 
saying that there will be a third to fail to come 
true. That gives a shadow of foundation for what 
the servants say, for you must allow that it has 
more substance than most superstitions.” 

“Oh, Aunt Margaret,” said the girl, with re¬ 
proachful surprise, “I didn’t think you were ca¬ 
pable of such a belief as that! I won’t allow any¬ 
thing of the kind. A neighborhood is such an 
elastic affair when you try to prove such a thing 
as that.” 

“What is that? neighborhoods are elastic sort 
of affairs?” repeated a clear masculine voice be¬ 
hind them; and this time Nathaniel Dow strolled 
idly out upon the veranda. He, too, had seemed 
aimless and restless for the last ten minutes. It 
was too warm a night to discuss business affairs, 
he said. The widow had seen his wandering at¬ 
tention with quiet penetration. ‘ ‘ Surely neighbor¬ 
hoods ought to be elastic if we carry out the 
Scriptural injunction, oughtn’t they?” said he. 
“By the way, I came out on the train with a lady 
who complained you’d rather given her the go-by 
lately, Miss Jakway. She seemed to think neigh- 


JANSE DOTJW’S DESCENDANTS 33 


borliness had been stretched to an extreme point 
of tension with her.’’ 

“Who? Mrs. Fordyce?” enquired Eliza. “I 
have neglected her lately. I haven’t been there 
since she got back. I didn’t really know she was 
at home until yesterday, when I met the doctor.” 

Dr. Fordyce was one of the two most active 
practitioners in the place, and was a near neigh¬ 
bor of the Dows’, though his house fronted on a 
more central street of the village, where its pretty 
gables were half lost among the thick foliage 
which was a peculiarity of most parts of Setauket. 
A light from there could be seen now, glisten¬ 
ing among the trees. The doctor’s wife was still 
a young woman, and their vicinage had brought 
within Eliza’s reach a friendship which had been 
a great resource in her narrow life, and she had 
helped to wear a path through the intervening 
fields; constituting herself a bright link, with the 
free activity of girlhood, between the two house¬ 
holds, and not expecting an even interchange. 
Indeed, Mrs. Dow would have found any frequent 
visitor an annoyance. 

“I wonder how old Mr. Sydney is improving,” 
remarked Miss Dow. “I see Dr. Fordyce has been 
attending him. I shouldn’t be surprised if he 
didn’t get around again. I cling to that old be¬ 
lief, that there’s apt to be three deaths in a neigh¬ 
borhood. Eliza thinks I’m very superstitious, but 
I’ve seen it so often come true that I can’t help 
thinking there is something in it.” 

Nathaniel looked from one to another. It was 
evident that Aunt Margaret had a grievance. 

“Don’t you believe in omens, Miss Jakway?” 
asked he. “That’s singular for a young lady. I 
supposed they knew all about such lore. And 


34 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

certainly yon come naturally by it out in Suffolk. 
It is indigenous to the soil.” 

“You must regard me as an exception, then,” 
she returned, after a moment’s silence. “But I 
shouldn’t like to forfeit my right to a claim to 
the soil. I, too, am a product, though I don’t 
think it necessary to plant some things in the new 
and others in the old of the moon and that nobody 
ever dies until the tide goes out, or any of the 
other absurdities.” 

“Look out!” warned Nathaniel. “I come of 
sailor stock, remember! All that network of 
tradition is dear to the sailor heart. All regions 
where there is a considerable sailor population 
are inclined to superstition,” added he ; “I do 
not myself consider it a weakness. It is only a 
confession that we cannot wholly understand the 
laws under which we live, or of a more than or¬ 
dinary awe of the mysteries around us. I am not 
sure that I am quite exempt from it myself.” 

“There, I was sure you had too much good 
sense to take such an extreme stand,” said Miss 
Margaret Dow, much pleased. “You’re too much 
of a Dow to repudiate all belief in the super¬ 
natural. They have known so many singular 
things to happen. None of them ever would or 
could say there was nothing in them. I don’t 
like superstition, but it won’t do to go to the 
other extreme,” rather testily. “It isn’t all one 
way or all the other.” The good lady considered 
her own belief nicely poised. She found it irri¬ 
tating to encounter this progressive, iconoclastic, 
modern spirit. “There are a great many things 
that are very curious and you have to allow they 
are curious.” 

“Strange coincidences,” Eliza said. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 35 


“Oh, yes, coincidences. That’s easily said,” 
with warmth. “ You’re not very reverent, Miss,” 
said she, nodding her head. Aunt Margaret was 
easily aroused, hut as easily mollified. 

Nathaniel laughed at this little engagement. It 
amused him to see how the girl held her own, with 
clear, untroubled eyes and firm smiling lips. Yet 
she turned to him a little doubtfully. 

“You don’t think of it as Dr. Fordyce does,” 
she said. “I carried his wife in a horseshoe I 
picked up in the lane—a new one, too!—and he 
met me with it and read me quite a lecture on 
thinking it possible they would indulge in any 
such folly. He wanted to know if I was a voudoo, 
and said they didn’t have charms about the house. 
I had considered it such an innocent thing to do! 
Ever since I’ve been looking at it differently, and 
I see that it is really very weak and foolish to 
care for signs like that. It will be some time 
before I shall recover enough independence to 
pick a four-leaf clover, or to mind whether my 
left ear burns, or if I spill salt or tumble upstairs, 
or do any other of the things that bring dreadful 
consequences. He says superstition is spirituality 
unchecked by common-sense and reason. I thought 
the definition very good,” added she, with a 
gravity that struck Nathaniel as prettily quaint. 

“Fordyce is a man of science, and naturally 
attacks all the pleasant old beliefs that can’t be 
mathematically demonstrated,” said he. “And I 
suppose the efficacy of horseshoes has never been 
proved. I see you are rather versed for all your 
pretended indifference. What do you make of 
that thin crescent looking you full in the face from 
over that tree, there?” 


36 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


“Open disgrace,’’ said Eliza, promptly, disre¬ 
garding her professions in the surprise with 
which she raised her eyes and greeted the new 
moon, a slender, pale, delicate sickle, limned 
against the evening sky opposite. 

Nathaniel threw back his head and laughed 
long and heartily. 

“No question about your being a native,”.he 
said. “But I never knew that it meant anything 
so tragical as that. That wasn’t my version. 
Haven’t I heard something about a new admirer, 
Aunt Margaret? I know you remember all the 
old signs.” 

“Wjhat’s that? Full in the face? Why, we 
girls used to say a new beau for that, I remem¬ 
ber. How’d you come to think of it, Nat? The 
Indians couldn’t very well hang any powder horn 
on there, could they? They can start off on their 
hunt safely enough. Well, I believe I’ll go in. I 
see it lacks just four minutes of the witching hour 
o’ nine.” She arose and drew her shawl about 
her. Nathaniel hastened to help her, and to hand 
her her cane. “I believe my drive tired me,” 
said she. “And it’s damp tonight after the 
shower. ’ ’ 

“I can’t identify some of those lights,” re¬ 
marked Nathaniel, as he returned to his post by 
the pillar, looking out towards a glimpse of the 
open sea. “I should like to know where that 
bright, stationary one is. Let us go out where 
we can see farther up the coast.” 

“Be careful not to go where it’s damp, Eliza. 
The grass must be dreadfully wet after that heavy 
rain. Here take my shawl, if you’re going.” 
Regardless of the girl’s demurs, she left it with 
her and went hobbling into the house. 


Ill 


“There is no pleasanter sound to me,” said 
the young man, as they paced along, “than that 
of the sea. I would miss it, I know, if I were to 
live inland. Mountains are the only element of 
scenery that at all compensates for it; but, grand 
as they are, I do not feel that kinship for them 
in the blood that would make them the same to 
me . 9 9 

“ ‘And with me high mountains are a feeling,’ ” 
quoted Eliza. “Not that I ever saw a mountain,” 
laughing. 

“Yes, I suppose the Swiss and the Scotch feel 
that way, and noble races they are. But I believe 
I have an affinity for the sea inherited from a 
sea-faring ancestry that binds me to it more 
especially. None of my ancestors were mountain¬ 
eers. We belong by long descent to the lowlands. 
When I go west on business I always feel re¬ 
freshed and invigorated to get back where I meet 
the first sniff of the salt brine.” 

“I should not like to live inland,” said the girl, 
with the quick prejudice of a dweller by the coast. 
“And yet, sometimes I am a little tired of the 
monotony here. No wonder we are all of us 
stupid. Cousin Frank used to tell me I was a 
bivalve . 9 9 

“Did Frank tell you that? It sounds just like 
him,” said Nathaniel, quickly. It came to him 
with a flash of intuition that that little touch of 
sensitiveness he had observed in her was due to 

37 


38 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

some such experience with his cousin. “Pm not 
surprised,’’ he added, drily. 

“You think Frank a little conceited, I know, 
laughed she. “And so do I. But it was the truth 
—or at least, it had a grain of truth in it. . We are 
rather shut in and silent. But it’s our situation. 
Even Cousin Frank, with all his brilliancy, 
wouldn’t exactly ‘confiscate with wit,’ if he were 
to be here all the time.” 

“No, no doubt change of scene is necessary for 
us all,” assented her companion, something of 
the decided pleasure he experienced in finding 
that they were launched upon this easy, con¬ 
fidential exchange of views making itself per¬ 
ceptible in his voice as he spoke. “Yet, Miss 
Jakway, after a day in the city among the toiling 
and moiling, with men cheating and getting the 
best of each other, and everyone growing care¬ 
worn and world-hardened in the pursuit of some 
selfish end, far from seeming stupid out here 
you appear to me the fortunate denizens of some 
sort of Arcadia. ” 

“Ah, Mr. Dow, we all know your opinion of our 
Arcadia. It will do for us and Jennings—poor 
thread-bare Mr. Jennings—but for you, as for 
Cousin Frank, it would be altogether too circum¬ 
scribed a sphere.” 

Here it was again: the hint—more than a hint, 
of a capacity for quick observation and insight 
that forced him to recognize a depth such as he 
had not looked for. And yet it was hardly the 
gentle girl he had hitherto known, whose quiet, 
undemonstrative ways had seemed to promise a 
feminine softness exactly to his taste, when he 
should overcome the barrier of reserve that had 
so far held him at a distance. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 39 


‘ ‘ It is lonely for yon here, ’ r he said, presently, 
and Eliza, who had been taking herself to task for 
her hasty speech was much relieved by his friend¬ 
ly tones. “Do you always pass your evenings 
as you did tonight! I mean, at that work! Mak¬ 
ing those things!” A vision of Eliza making 
spills of bright, variously-colored tissue paper 
through the long winter nights, or making one 
at some sacrificial game of cards, came to him 
as a downright injustice and genuine loss to the 
world. 

Eliza did not understand at first. Those spills 
were one of her cousin Florence ’s pet economies; 
it was a great saving of matches. 

“Making spills! Oh, no, I only happened to 
be doing that,” she said, taking his question quite 
seriously. ‘ ‘ Sometimes I practice. The piano is 
so far away nobody minds. But the lights are 
not well arranged and Dr. Fordyce says it tries 
my eyes, so sometimes I only play in the dark, 
just by ear.” 

Nathaniel was impressed by this melancholy 
picture of Eliza playing in the dark to while 
away the long, lonely evenings. 

“You might learn to be a second Clara Schu¬ 
mann,” he deliberated. 

“Yes, I might.” The young person to whom 
this brilliant possibility was held out spoke in a 
tone of such keen indignation that the other recog¬ 
nized the humor of it at once and laughed out¬ 
right, even before she continued. “And you might 
be as great a linguist as that—that Italian, who¬ 
ever he was, if you would only utilize all your 
spare moments.” 

“That is true,” he acknowledged. “Yes, you 
don’t have much incentive to bang away, I sup- 


40 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


pose. That’s the real trouble with a country life. 
One fancies one would accomplish wonders with 
all that leisure, but once away from the stimulat¬ 
ing example, the friction, and one rusts inevi¬ 
tably—I beg pardon! ” 

“Oh, I know I do rust. You need not,” said 
she, hastily. “But then, I don’t think I ever 
was polished up.” Both laughed in happy ac¬ 
cord. 

It was a beautiful night, fresh and fragrant, 
and the stars were obscured by some dark clouds. 
The murmur of the unseen, unfathomable sea was 
all about them, and its plash and beat could be 
heard among the rocks on the shore. The occa¬ 
sional dull thud of the distant higher surf of 
the ocean came borne to their ears by the fresh¬ 
ening breeze. 

“I think we are getting a little better ac¬ 
quainted, Miss Jakway,” Nathaniel ventured to 
say, pressing closer the small hand that rested 
on his arm under pretense of thinking that it was 
about to slip from its support. “I found you 
very hard to get acquainted with, at first. I be¬ 
gan to think I should never make any progress 
toward it. It was Sisyphus, wasn’t it, who was 
always condemned to rolling a stone up a hill and 
having it descend again?” 

“Must you have a classical allusion? or will the 
old song do? ‘Such a getting upstairs I never 
did see: getting up one stair, tumble down 
three?’ ” laughed Eliza. She was sure now that 
he did not criticize her, or he would not complain 
of not getting better acquainted. 

“How wicked of you! Your tone sounds just 
as if you had enjoyed it,” he accused her, to her 
further amusement. “Yes, it seemed as if I never 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 41 


got ahead. I thought you had taken a great pre¬ 
judice against me.” 

‘ i Oh, no, how can you say so ? I had heard so 
many complimentary things said of you, on the 
contrary. It made me feel afraid of you. I had 
been led to suppose you were quite a pattern— 
an Admirable Crichton.” 

Eliza was venturing into new fields. Tonight 
she had floated up, as it were, on to the crest of 
a wave of greater freedom and self-assertion, yet 
it was with some trepidation that she hazarded 
the strength of these untried wings. 

“Worse and worse,” said Nathaniel; but the 
elated little laugh with which he spoke plainly 
said that his self-love had not been proof against 
this naive confession. “You had been led to sup¬ 
pose, and were evidently misinformed, that tone 
says. And yet I ought to be glad that you used 
the past tense, Miss Jakway. It seems that I am 
in a fair way to recover from this very alarming 
condition. ’ 9 

Was he offended or not? Eliza could not tell, 
and though she would have liked to obtain a near 
view of his features she was not to be greatly 
cast down on this lovely night with her hand held 
so closely on his arm while they sauntered to¬ 
gether along the sandy beach. 

“You are very sarcastic, but I have heard it 
said of you,” she defended herself, with a little 
nod of the head. 

“I assure you, you do me a great deal too much 
honor,” said her companion. “I am not experi¬ 
enced socially. I am a busy man, Miss Jakway, 
and my life in the city is the prosaic life of a 
struggling member of the legal fraternity, and 
the doors of society, when they open to me at 


42 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


all—for, through my mother’s relatives and my 
old college friends I do have invitations some¬ 
times—they open into rather an alien atmos¬ 
phere, in which I feel myself very slightly at home. 
Neither my mother nor myself have the means 
to go out often in New York society. But that 
was no reason. You are only throwing dust in 
my eyes. Why were you so reserved, so distant ? ’ ’ 
he persisted, in the same tone of low, almost 
tender complaint. 

Eliza drew back a little. Memory would not 
let her forget those tender episodes with Frank 
Dow when she had first met him some years ago, 
and how she had felt afterwards when she realized 
she had been merely the amusement of an idle 
hour. Down in her heart there was still a fierce 
unforgivingness to her cousin in that she had not 
shielded her against that. 

“Doesn’t it occur to you that there may not 
be much of me to know, Mr. Dow? I have heard 
sailors say that shallows may be as baffling to 
sound as depths, ’ ’ laughed she, with light evasion. 

“No, I believe you are deep. I think you are 
deeper than I thought before,” said Nat, and 
he said it with so much conviction that the girl’s 
merriment rang out into the night like a chime 
of silver bells. 

“Well, I think you are entitled to the name of 
discoverer to have discovered that I have depths; 
no one has ever thought so before.” Eliza did 
not intend to be pathetic, but her tone appealed 
to the young man with a force of unconscious 
truthfulness. 

“That is it,” he said, quickly. “You are ut¬ 
terly without egotism, and you have never been 
in the habit of thinking about yourself. You have 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 43 


allowed yourself to be absorbed into the current 
of other lives, and so have acquiesced in the tacit 
verdict that this dull, commonplace groove was 
sufficient for you. But you have suppressed your 
own deeper nature to do this.” 

“Oh, but I haven’t always acquiesced,” ob¬ 
jected Eliza, with instinctive honesty. “You don’t 
know of my discontent.” 

“I know of your cheerfulness. Discontent 
would be only natural for a young person of your 
age. You are buried here. It’s no life for a 
young girl. I wonder my aunt doesn’t see it. 
And yet—my conscience reproaches me for in¬ 
structing you in a more selfish philosophy. It 
seems to be such an easy cloak for all unlovely 
qualities. I try to resist it, and yet I know that 
I do not keep clear of it. As for you, you are 
as little assertive as a healthy minded person need 
be. Some little assertion is necessary, but no 
one who knows you would wish you otherwise.” 

This kind of appreciation and sympathy, spoken 
in that deep, gentle tone that carried assurance of 
its genuineness, was new to his companion. She, 
who had never supposed her own character of 
interest to anyone, excepting as its weaknesses 
were brought into prominence—she was often un¬ 
comfortably conscious of those—could not but be 
joyfully receptive to this new music. Its utter¬ 
ances sank deep into her girlish soul. 

She turned her head and looked up into the 
kindly eyes bent upon her. They were not only 
kindly, they were full now of a glowing light 
before which hers fell involuntarily. 

They walked along, slowly returning to the 
steps, and started to go in. As Eliza drew her 
hand from her companion’s arm, the bracelet on 


44 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


it caught in the meshes of her fleecy, white shawl. 
Nathaniel offered to extricate it, but in the first 
sharp movement the edges had already bruised 
the tender flesh. 

“Did it hurt you? That is too bad,” he ex¬ 
claimed. “Let us come up under the light where 
we can see better.” 

The operation was a rather long one, perhaps 
because a young man’s fingers are awkward at 
such things; when, at this juncture, Captain Jak- 
way threw open the wide hall door and allowed 
a stream of brighter light to encircle the two 
forms and bending heads, as he came out, vig¬ 
orously starting a light in his pipe, for his even¬ 
ing walk homeward. 

“Look out there!” he sang out. “Aren’t you 
two craft, pretty close together? What’s the need 
of your exchanging such close signals?” 

Eliza looked up, one corner of the white shawl 
gracefully disposed over her brown head, her 
eyes looking graciously, caressingly, out from 
under the loose rings that shaded her forehead. 
Never should Nathaniel forget the shy, mischiev¬ 
ous beauty of that laughing face if he lived to be 
as grey as the old captain yonder, who was still 
enjoying his own broad wit. If he had been heart- 
free before, he was destined to be so no longer. 

“It is of no consequence,” Eliza said, sweetly. 
“It will be easy enough to do inside.” 

Uncle Petrarch’s rough jokes did not discom¬ 
pose her. She went up the steps with glowing 
cheeks and shining eyes, her white shawl slipping 
off her shoulders, a smile on her lips, and passed 
by him without any answer. As she paused in 
the hall to staunch the blood from the little wound 
in her arm with her handkerchief, she was in- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 45 


tercepted by tbe widow, who came hastily out of 
the library, where she had been in the act of 
closing the windows. Mrs. Dow had a startled 
air, and looked strangely pale and disturbed. 

“Eliza, I think I have seen a ghost,” said 
she, with almost a gasp. “Hush! don’t tell any¬ 
one, ’ ’ with a slight, nervous laugh. ‘ 4 They would 
think me so foolish! But it was strange! It was 
his face, I am sure. Oh, do you suppose it could 
have been my imagination? I am sure it was a 
real face! That’s the strange part of it. Oh, 
Eliza, what can it be? What can it be? Do you 
suppose it is an omen? It is just the time of 
year, the month of awful memories to all of 
the Dow race. W T hat do you suppose it means? 
Oh, I know how silly it must seem to you!” Mrs. 
Dow did not seem like herself, as she stood wring¬ 
ing her hands in her excitement and bewilder¬ 
ment. 

“Mean? Why, I don’t know, Cousin Florence. 
What has frightened you so? I am sure you 
haven’t seen any ghost,” said the girl, reassuring¬ 
ly. ‘ ‘ But why not tell anyone ? It is better to let 
them know, whatever it is. Can’t I tell Mr. 
Dow? Isn’t it something he could do?” 

The bright smile brought to her lips by the old 
captain’s words had not yet entirely faded; the 
warm current of her pulses, that had but a mo¬ 
ment before throbbed with young, exultant life, 
could not all at once respond to the widow’s dis¬ 
may, though her joyous mood was checked and 
chilled by it. 

“It was a man’s face, Eliza, looking in at the 
window—I saw it as plainly as I see yours; a 
man that I thought was drowned at sea years 
ago. What do you suppose it means that I should 


46 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


see his ghost? I never cared for him and he per¬ 
secuted me, and left me under a load of mis¬ 
fortune from which he might easily have freed 
me. Eliza, I feel as if my own end was approach¬ 
ing. ’’ 

Mrs. Dow was still pale and tremulous, and was 
obliged to seat herself on one of the hall chairs. 
Her young cousin ran through to the sideboard 
in the dining-room for a glass of water, and came 
hurrying back, the ice clicking against the sides 
of the tumbler and her heels pattering on the 
inlaid wooden floor of the hall as she hastened. 

The captain had joined Nathaniel down on the 
pathway, and the two women were alone. A 
glance at the girl’s face, now becoming wan as 
her own from contagious excitement, made the 
widow smile with more composure as Eliza again 
stood before her. 

“Well, never mind, Eliza,’’ she said. “It may 
have been only fancy. I do not seem like myself 
this evening. I didn’t know I was one of the 
superstitious ones.” 

“I don’t believe you are,” rejoined Eliza, un¬ 
willing to so easily give up the matter. “Please 
let me ask Mr. Dow. It can’t do any harm,” and, 
without waiting for permission, she flew to the 
door. Nathaniel came immediately at her call. 
‘ ‘ Cousin Florence thought she saw a man looking 
in at the library window,” explained she. “Would 
you mind going around there to see if you can see 
anybody?” 

Nathaniel’s answer was to promptly dart away 
around the bay window near, and become lost 
in the thickness of the clouded summer night, 
though the widow stood behind Eliza laughing and 
deprecating that it was foolish and unnecessary 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 47 


to do so. Captain Jakway, after hearing a little 
more from them both, started the other way. The 
two women stood waiting on the veranda, hear¬ 
ing the plash of the tide, the distant scream of a 
gull. 

Both men soon returned, but had discovered 
no cause for alarm. The exchange of a few words 
between Captain Jakway and the new gardener, 
who had been found sitting on the stone steps of 
the basement area, was all there was to report. 

“He says the indications are for another storm 
tonight. I guess he’s about right,” said the cap¬ 
tain. 

Eliza had been earnestly casting about in her 
mind for a solution of this problem. These words 
of the old captain’s furnished her with a clue. 

“Don’t you believe it was he?” she asked, eag¬ 
erly, of her cousin. “Was it a man with a heavy 
beard? and bushy eyebrows? It’s just like him 
to come and peep into the windows. He seemed 
to me to be queer. I believe there’s something 
odd about that man! I shouldn’t wonder if we 
should find that he had escaped from prison, or 
something of that kind. I really shouldn’t. ’ ’ 

“I think we had better discharge him, Eliza, if 
you feel so much distrust of him,” said Mrs. Dow, 
seeing that the young lady was becoming quite 
wrought up as she advanced this theory, and that 
her eyes had grown unnaturally large as she dwelt 
upon it. Nathaniel, also, laughed and rallied her 
on this fanciful idea. “He came to us well recom¬ 
mended, you know, and it isn’t very easy to supply 
his place. Well, it’s time I went to bed and slept 
off my notions; good-night, father,” and, kissing 
the old man, as she never failed to do, nightly, 
when they parted, and apparently quite her usual 


48 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


matter-of-fact self, she went through to the door 
of the kitchen to give Sarah her directions in re¬ 
gard to breakfast. Eliza had time for a few 
words with Nathaniel, a last laughing glance 
down at him over the banisters, as she and her 
cousin wended their way upstairs. They had been 
speculating about the incident that had just oc¬ 
curred; and already it seemed like a figment of 
the widow’s imagination. Mrs. Dow called back 
to him that she knew he’d make fun of her if she 
told him. They’d find out his pet weakness some 
day. 

Mrs. Dow’s room, with its dressing room oft 
from it, occupied the second story of one wing of 
the house. It had windows on three sides, and the 
white curtains were fluttering and the low light 
flickering in the draught as she entered, followed 
by Eliza. Here a change again came over her; 
her fears returned, and the girl would not leave 
her until she had seen her in a calmer mood. 

It was a reversal of their ordinary relations 
that neither thought much of at the time. Eliza, 
though not unsympathetic, was too happy not to 
help to scatter the mists of gloomy imagination 
by the very brightness of her youthful presence; 
she still felt and acted as if she had come out of 
a world of warm actualities that had left her en¬ 
tirely out of rapport with ghosts, and brought it 
home to Mrs. Dow, without need of words, how 
little likely it was that she had had any super¬ 
natural vision. Yet the more she became con¬ 
vinced that it had been no apparition, the more 
disposed she was to seek a natural and plausible 
explanation and conclude that she must have seen 
the man himself. 

‘ ‘ Can it be possible that he is still alive ? I had 
every reason to believe that he was dead. His 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 49 


own family believe it. That man has been the evil 
genius of my life,” she said, as she sat while Eliza 
was loosening the strands of her long black hair, 
still scarcely touched with grey. “No wonder I 
fear him. Whenever he crossed my path he 
brought disaster. When I first met him I was a 
care-free, happy girl, and had plenty of admirers. 
I didn’t want his attentions, but he forced them 
upon me. There was no pushing him off, and at 
last I half accepted him. I was frightened into it. 
You can easily believe that when I met Mr. Dow 
—came to know him, that is, for I had always seen 
him around the Point, and thought him the hand¬ 
somest man I had ever set eyes upon! I couldn’t 
make up my mind to keeping faith with that other. 
I had been a spoiled, wilful girl, and had never 
done anything yet that I didn’t want to. I threw 
myself upon his generosity, and asked him to 
release me. I had never liked him, I told him 
plainly. He let me go—he couldn’t very well do 
otherwise—but he never forgave me, and he al¬ 
ways tried to do me all the injury he could. It 
seemed to smoulder in that gloomy nature of his, 
ready to break forth in some ugly purpose to¬ 
wards me. But if it had only been me, and he had 
not sacrificed poor Tom—” for a moment she 
broke down, and hid her face in her hands, and 
Eliza saw her grieve as she had never seen her 
grieve before. But she soon controlled herself. 
“Yet it is not too late for him to make up for it, 
if he would. If he only would! Eliza, what if it 
were no ghost, but Jarvis Marshall himself, come 
to do me tardy justice at last! If it were true 
and he would be willing to testify to all that he 
knows, it seems to me I could die content.” 

“Don’t talk of dying, Cousin Flo,” Eliza cried. 
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t live a thousand 


50 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

years,” and she threw her arms about the elder 
woman ’s neck in the exuberance of her own happi¬ 
ness and sympathy. Mrs. Dow shook her off with 
the uneasiness of one unused to demonstration; 
but not before a tear had fallen on her black hair, 
and she saw the girl’s eyes were full of them as 
she raised her head. 

“Well, I’m sure I’m glad if there’d be one to 
mourn for me,” said she, smiling. “I may live 
longer than you want me to, now, however. I 
don’t know that anything’s the matter with me, 
though I sometimes fancy I’m not quite as well as 
I used to be. Well, dear, how did the evening go? 
Were you and Nathaniel walking on the beach? 
Margaret said you were. You two are becoming 
very good friends, are you not?” 

Mrs. Dow had a pet scheme of her own. In her 
opinion, Eliza, who was of her own kith and kin, 
was a very unusual girl. The widow was both 
proud and fond of this protege of hers. She took 
pleasure in seeing that Eliza had all that was 
necessary in the way of dress; having always been 
fond of dress herself, and being ignorant of the 
best society, she rather overestimated its impor¬ 
tance. It was not due to her that Eliza possessed 
as much culture and refinement as she had, or 
made so creditable an appearance. But she en¬ 
joyed the triumph, as if it were a thing in which 
she had a part, of Nathaniel’s evident admiration 
and liking. 

“Why don’t you go in for him, Eliza?” said 
she. “You couldn’t meet a nicer fellow. Remem¬ 
ber, I should approve.” 

“Oh, Cousin Florence, please don’t! If there’s 
anything I hate it is to be told to ‘go in’ for any¬ 
body,” said Eliza, nervously. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 51 


“Yes, that’s the way girls talk,” said the 
widow; but the smile with which she spoke rather 
softened the coarse practicality of her words. She 
herself had once been an untutored girl, but 
Eliza’s modest diffidence and reserve were very 
unlike her own self-confident attitude toward the 
world. “But it ought not to be any sacrifice of 
pride for you to make yourself a little attractive,” 
objected she. “I don’t see the need for any girl 
to shroud herself up in a sort of repellant pride. ’ ’ 

“Have I shrouded myself up in a repellent 
pride ? ’ ’ asked Eliza, smiling and looking so sweet 
and pretty that her cousin’s vexation was par¬ 
tially disarmed. 

“Well, I don’t know as you have with Nat, so 
much. There’s something about his bright ways 
that makes it a difficult thing to keep him at a dis¬ 
tance, for you or anyone else. But I’ve seen you 
with others.” The widow, perhaps, had some 
recollection that Eliza and her own son had not 
been on the best of terms. “Well, as I say, noth¬ 
ing would please me so much. You seem to me 
well suited to each other, and if you marry I will 
give the house to you both. It’s rightfully Nat’s, 
anyway, only he’d never accept it from me other¬ 
wise. He’s the only Dow among us. ’ ’ 

“Well, don’t count me as part of such a mer¬ 
cenary arrangement, ’ ’ said Eliza, shrinking back. 
“I won’t even talk of it. I didn’t intend to even 
listen to you, Cousin Flo. ’ ’ Eliza was in a tremor. 
It almost seemed as if she were defending some 
right. 

“But why impossible?” persisted Mrs. Dow. 
“As if you didn’t know what Nathaniel comes 
down here for!” 


52 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


“Why, he comes on your business, ” said Eliza. 

“Yes, he does, and he doesn’t/’ laughed the 
widow. “If you think it is all business you are 
the only one in the house in the dark.” 

“Oh, I don’t believe it,” declared Eliza. “I 
know it isn’t so,” and she was glad to run away 
from further talk to her own room. 

“Little goose,” was the widow’s only comment, 
and after the girl was gone she sat for several 
hours watching the gathering of another heavy 
storm with which the over-charged atmosphere 
relieved itself later in the night. 

Once in her own room Eliza looked at the image 
of herself in the mirror with a closer, more critical 
scrutiny than ever before. That image was strik¬ 
ingly pretty tonight with all that radiance of hope, 
sweetness and graciousness about it. Eliza had 
never before valued her beauty much, though she 
could not be unaware of it; but, in her retired life 
it had counted for little more as a factor than the 
beauty of flowers outside. But she could hardly 
accept Nathaniel’s words of praise as she thought 
them over. Ah, he little knew what a restless, dis¬ 
contented being she was—had been, this very 
night. But she would never be so again. And he 
—how little she had done him justice! He was 
kindness and manliness itself. All his opinions 
seemed so sound and just. She was coming to 
feel a reliance upon him, a trust in him, such as 
she had felt in no other person. And yet, only so 
short a time before, she had felt almost antago¬ 
nistic toward him! 

But she had a great horror of her cousin’s in¬ 
termeddling. Already something of the glamour 
was gone from her remembrance of the evening’s 
good understanding on account of what she had 
said. 


IV 


The storm which soon broke over their heads 
was a violent one, and left none of them an excuse 
for sleeping. Eliza rose and sat by the window, 
watching the vivid play of the lightning and the 
fall of the rain in heavy sheets, and in some 
anxiety as to the effect upon her flower beds. 
Early morning found her out in her garden look¬ 
ing into the extent of the damage, and finding the 
shrubbery much beaten and sad havoc among 
the geranium border. But the grass was like vel¬ 
vet, and the trees, though somewhat denuded of 
their foliage, showed a new freshness of leaf and 
stem. 

She herself seemed to partake something of this 
morning dewiness as she entered the breakfast 
room with her hands full of convolvulus, to be 
greeted by exclamations at their delicately tinted, 
evanescent beauty from the rest already gathered 
there. 

“ You are out early,” Nathaniel said, looking up 
with a smile as she entered. He was cutting up 
some canteloupes which had been placed on the 
table before him. 

4 * Eliza is always an early bird,” remarked Mrs. 
Dow. 

“I was out looking at my pansy bed,” said the 
girl. ‘‘ I was afraid the rain had washed away the 
stakes. I had them planted several days ago, for 
I intend to have some early ones next year.” 

“Are they up yet?” Nathaniel asked. 

53 


54 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

“Up? Do you think they are Jonah’s gourd, 
sir?” as she ordered Myra to bring in a bowl of 
water and proceeded to arrange her flowers. 
There are few things that fall in the way of 
feminine occupation that display one to greater 
advantage than this act of arranging flowers. 
Nathaniel seemed to think so, and watched her 
while she did this, enjoying the evidence of his 
power furnished him in the down-cast, averted 
eyes,, which displayed so well the length of the eye¬ 
lashes on the round, pale, satin-smooth cheeks; 
yet that did not prevent his seeing that there were 
darker shadows beneath. Indeed, she confessed 
to a night of interrupted rest, and all in common 
said that they had been much disturbed by the 
storm. 

“How about your scare, Aunt Florence? What 
did it resolve itself into?” Nat asked. 

“I have no idea,” Mrs. Dow said, as she turned 
the coffee. 

“Emerson never said a truer thing than that 
Nature makes fifty poor melons for one that is 
good,” her nephew went on to observe, as he 
helped out the melons. “Now this looks to me 
like the fifty-first melon. You people don’t con¬ 
sider how fortunate you are in having your own 
fruit fresh from the vines. I’ve given up eating 
melons in the city. It seems to me they are all 
stale.” 

“And of all stale things an old melon is the 
stalest, ’ ’ remarked Aunt Margaret. 4 4 But I don’t 
think we have quite as good success with melons 
as father used to have. Or is it in me that nothing 
seems as good as it once was?” 

“You a pessimist, Aunt Meg, and joining in the 
general cry of degeneracy? ’’ Nathaniel said, with 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 55 


a smile. His eyes met Eliza’s. How different 
was their view of life from that of this lonely, 
misanthropic old woman. The best of it to them 
did not lie in the past. 

“How can you look at these morning-glories 
and talk of stale things!’ ’ protested Eliza. 4 ‘ They 
seem to rebuke the very thought. They speak of 
dawn and morning and everything fresh and 
lovely. If you had taken an early morning walk 
as I did, Miss Dow, you would have brought more 
zest to your melons.” Brightened by that ex¬ 
change of glances, Eliza trailed the last long ten¬ 
dril up to meet the shell full of growing plants that 
hung from the chandelier as she spoke, and seated 
herself in triumph. 

Miss Dow put her gold eye-glasses on her nose, 
and took up the morning paper. 

“Upon my word, quite a sermon from you 
young people,” grumbled she. “It’s to be hoped 
I may profit by it. I never knew you to be 
so Pharisaical, Eliza. Well, anyone may get up 
early if they like; I never was addicted to it.” 
Indeed, the storm that had so shortened her slum¬ 
bers had this morning brought her down at a, much 
earlier hour than usual. 

“Nat, I have one or two commissions I would 
like you to attend to in the city, if you can spare 
the time,” said the widow, as the young man, hav¬ 
ing exhausted all available pretexts for lingering, 
and finding his watch left him little more than 
time to catch the latest morning express, rose to 
go. 

“This will be a great accommodation, Nat. 
Don’t try to bring everything; you can have part 
of them sent by express,” she explained, apolo¬ 
getically, as she turned around. “But I need 


56 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

them, and can’t wait to go in myself. You think 
so poorly of Setauket already, perhaps it isn’t 
best to tell you what shopping facilities we have 
out here,” referring laughingly to the others. 

“No,” Eliza chimed in, “old Mr. Tennick once 
wondered at my wanting to buy a whole paper of 
pins. He generally obligingly sold them in rows. 
But then, to do Setauket justice, Mr. Tennick is 
not our largest dealer. ’ ’ 

“If that’s the state of the case I assume you 
must have a few wants to add to this list,” Na¬ 
thaniel said. But she declined his offer with that 
little touch of primness he had hoped she was 
forgetting. 

“Iam afraid I shouldn’t think of burdening you 
further, Mr. Dow.” 

“Oh, no burden,” said he, quickly. “You must 
be content then to be regarded as an anomaly 
among suburban ladies, ’ ’ meeting her glance with 
a smile, the kindling smile that seemed so much a 
part of him, and that brought the warm color to 
her own face as he left the room. There was the 
memory of the night before in both pairs of eyes 
in that mutual glance. 

The morning, already advanced, wore away 
rapidly. Eliza was restless but joyous. She was 
heard singing as she moved about the house, as 
she went down the garden walks. The youthful, 
joyous side of her character seemed awakening, 
now that the sunshine had entered her life, and 
she felt the penetrating radiance of its beams; 
as the impulse of song stirs in the heart of a caged 
bird that from the quiet and dullness of his sur¬ 
roundings has lost the faculty for a time, but 
recovers it again when he is translated to a 
brighter and more cheerful spot. There was but 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 57 


one cloud upon her horizon, and that was the 
widow’s expressed wish that she should call upon 
her daughter-in-law at Ex-Secretary Casgrove’s. 
Yet it was with comparative indifference to what 
she would probably have regarded as an ordeal a 
week ago, that she set out that afternoon to accom¬ 
plish this call; such is the power of any deep emo¬ 
tion to make the outward events of life seem of 
comparatively slight importance. 

It was not a long walk up to Mr. Casgrove’s, 
but Eliza had consumed some time over her toil¬ 
ette, and it was late when she turned into the gate. 
It was a fine, August day, and the sun was low 
in the west, and lay warmly along the smooth 
lawn, which had now become a dry floor of close- 
shorn sod, dappled by spots of elongated shade 
from several large trees. The most perfect neat¬ 
ness prevailed, though the curling brown leaves, 
eluding the vigilance of the careful gardener, had 
succeeded in matting themselves in among the 
black stems of the low shrubs, and might occasion¬ 
ally be found on the drive, bowling liesurely over 
at the capricious suggestion of a chance breeze, 
or seeking a sheltered haven where the gravel 
shelved smoothly off into the sombre turf. The 
house, as you came in view of it, had quite an 
imposing look, though originally plain enough. 
Tall urns filled with plants upon a terrace of grey 
stone, a row of stately palms, the glass of a con¬ 
servatory beyond, banks of brilliant annuals— 
these embellishments from the hand of fortune 
had quite transformed the everyday brick dwell¬ 
ing in their midst. 

It was not exactly an easy duty that had been 
imposed upon Eliza. Everybody knew of the 
stand Mrs. Dow had taken; of the strong preju- 


58 JANSE DOTJW’S DESCENDANTS 


dice she would not attempt to overcome. It was 
Eliza’s task to go between these two, without 
being disloyal to her cousin, and yet to avoid 
showing antagonism to Milly. She had never been 
called upon for diplomatic service before. 

She was told that Mrs. Dow would see her, and 
was ushered into a long room opening upon the 
terrace. The well-trained colored man who 
showed her in, the elegance in which she found 
herself—each had its effect in somewhat lessen¬ 
ing the courage with which she had entered; and, 
as her eyes noted amidst the handsome ensemble 
of the room numerous evidences of Mr. Cas- 
grove’s public career and foreign travel in the 
many curious and rare articles to be seen, she 
was unpleasantly reminded of Mrs. Frank Dow’s 
august host. When a chance footstep came near 
that seemed heavy enough for a masculine tread, 
she experienced some real trepidation at the idea 
of a possible encounter with him. 

The minute hand of the little bronze clock on 
the mantel had passed over some space before the 
rustle of skirts and a slight footfall announced 
an approach. Frank’s young wife came forward 
with outstretched hand to welcome her caller with 
a cordiality that changed Eliza’s lurking dread 
into a feeling of greater confidence. She was a 
slight creature, whose chief peculiarity, as you 
first met her, was the studied grace of her move¬ 
ments, and the bright varied expression of her 
delicate features. There was the charm about her 
that Eliza had been led to expect in one who had 
had the advantages that had been Millie Hay¬ 
den’s; and Eliza’s imagination was open to those 
differences in Millie’s dress and manner that 
marked what is known as the “society girl.” 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 59 


Eliza, in her own honest and hearty country 
bloom, could not conscientiously carry her recog¬ 
nition of Millie’s attractions any farther than 
this; for the face, a peculiar one in itself, pre¬ 
sented contradictions which slightly and vaguely 
repelled, and aroused criticism. It was red and 
white, and yet sad, with lightly wrinkled brows; 
a rose-leaf not in its first freshness, but beginning 
to> curl a little at the edges. She seemed nervous, 
high-strung, wilful, with only an outward repose; 
yet Eliza did not wonder she should exert a strong 
influence over a man of the disposition of Frank 
Dow, and should almost unfailingly attain her 
own ends. 

“And how is mamma? Is she well?” said Mrs. 
Dow, and Eliza had a humorous feeling springing 
out of a remembrance of the talk of the evening 
before that these enquiries were made somewhat 
as we ask about the habits of some curious crea¬ 
ture, some formidable but securely absent wild 
animal. 

“How can you live in that lonely old house?” 
pursued she, when the girl had replied. “I can’t 
understand what Frank sees in it. Old associa¬ 
tion, I suppose. That makes such a difference. 
We walked down past there the other evening— 
I mean, the last time I was down—and it gave me 
the blues to look in under all those dark trees. 
And that dreadful, old graveyard opposite— 
doesn’t it make you feel gloomy and unhappy? If 
I lived there the only way it would be endurable 
to me would be to entertain—bring parties of 
young friends down to stay in the house with me, 
and give lawn parties and teas. Mrs. Dow herself 
would be more cheerful, and it would be better for 


60 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


you I should think, Miss Jakway. You wouldn’t 
have to lead that sort of recluse life. ’ ’ 

“My life is well enough,” said Eliza, not willing 
that this patronizing little lady should know of 
her discontent. 

Millie stared a little. 

“I suppose there’s no use talking of any 
change,” she said, “although I agree with Frank 
that it’s rather hard that Thomas Dow’s wishes 
should count for nothing when he told him over 
and over again that he wished him to be his heir. 
I say, as I have always said, it’s very singular; 
and although it may not have anything to do with 
it, in my opinion it’s certainly very injudicious in 
her, to give so much coloring to the theory that 
remorse is the motive for her actions. For you 
don’t know what is said, Miss Jakway,” seeing 
that Eliza was uneasy and unwilling to talk over 
her kinswoman and benefactress. “Papa says 
so, Mr. Casgrove says so, everybody says so! Of 
course we know there must be some other motive, 
but the outside world doesn’t. But, talking about 
it does no good. We may propose, but she will 
dispose; and there will be an end of it. And Mr. 
Nathaniel Dow, where is he! Frank thinks so 
much of his cousin. He’s been a hero of his ever 
since they were boys together. Do tell me about 
him,” said she, with a pressing little gesture of 
guileless interest. 

“Mr. Dow spent last evening with us but went 
back to the city this morning,” Eliza answered, 
not able to command a sudden access of color in 
her face at the mention of that name and the pleas¬ 
ure these warm words of praise excited. Neither 
the sudden blush, or the slight indefinable differ¬ 
ence in her voice and expression failed to attract 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 61 


her companion’s notice. She slipped on and off 
her rings, among them a very beautiful diamond, 
with an abstracted air. 

“It seems strange not to know him,” she said, 
in a more qualifying way, “because Frank has 
always been so fond of his cousin. But, more than 
that, I’ve heard a great deal about him from a 
friend of mine. We are old school friends, and 
correspond constantly, and she often mentions his 
name in her letters. They are very warm friends, 
as I happen to know. She has never told me in 
so many words that they are engaged, but I know 
it has been spoken of in the Sunday paper, and I 
have once charged her with it. She didn’t deny 
it. She is one of the nicest girls I know—none 
too nice for Nathaniel, perhaps.” 

“No, I should think not,” said Eliza, loyally. 

‘ ‘ That may be, but she’s very brilliant. It isn’t 
every man that’s her equal. She’s a splendid cor¬ 
respondent—writes the most original, brightest 
letters you ever read! She’s famous for them! 
She could make her fortune in literature, all her 
friends have always told her, but society would 
lose a lot. I’ve the greatest curiosity, though, to 
know if their engagement is really a settled 
thing. ’ ’ 

“I have no means of information,” said Eliza, 
displaying admirable self-possession under this 
attack, though Millie’s keen preceptions had noted 
the swift change of feature with which she had 
first heard the intelligence. 

“Oh, then it hasn’t been formally announced? 
Of course, he would not say anything about it. 
But I’m crazy to know about it, just the same.” 
Millie was a bit puzzled by the quiet way in which 
the news had been received. The pique she felt at 


62 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


this disappointment, inclined her to l>e less cau¬ 
tious. “Look out for him, Eliza ,’ 9 said she, play¬ 
fully, “he’s very nice, I don’t doubt, but if I am 
not mistaken he’s already appropriated.” 

“What is that to me?” said Eliza, speaking now 
with quivering dignity. 

“Oh, nothing, perhaps,” the other answered, 
trying to laugh off her embarrassment with the 
pretty assurance that blinded many people to her 
faults and failings. “But then, I don’t believe in 
people’s going around under false colors. I like 
to unmask these gay Lotharios. Most young men, 
even if they have an interest elsewhere, like to 
have what fun they can with girls they are thrown 
in with.” 

“I don’t see why they need go around labelled 
with a ticket. We have no especial designs upon 
them, ’ ’ Eliza said, rising to her feet and speaking 
with vivacity. Wounded creatures sometimes 
show wonderful courage when brought to bay. 
Who would suppose this quiet girl to have so 
much spirit? “But I shall be sure and con¬ 
gratulate Mr. Dow the very first thing when I see 
him tonight.” The very pang with which she had 
heard the announcement had given her strength 
to meet it. She faced Millie with cool, level 
glances, under which the latter grew much less 
suave and sure of her ground. 

“Oh, don’t do that, please,” she deprecated, the 
rose-leaf color in her cheeks deepening percep¬ 
tibly; “or, at least, don’t use me as an authority, 
for you might get me into trouble. It’s not im¬ 
portant enough for that. On second thoughts, I 
don’t believe you’d better speak of it. I doubt if 
things are enough settled between them. I sup¬ 
pose my friend would feel annoyed if it should 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 63 


come to her ears that I had circulated a report like 
that. But if it isn’t exactly announced, I regard it 
as a foregone conclusion.” Millie stooped to pat 
a dainty fox terrier that had just uncurled him¬ 
self from a satin chair near to fawn around his 
mistress’ feet; and rising herself, she was glad to 
change the subject now that Eliza had risen. 

“I’d like to come down and see you all, but I 
think Frank would not wish me to go without him. 
He would have been down to see mamma the last 
time he was here, only he was here for such a 
short time; and then, he wasn’t quite ready. 
Frank has a plan—no, I don’t know as I ought to 
tell you, as it isn’t fully ripened; but I think you 
can safely say to her that he ’ll be down soon, and 
that he hopes to pay some of his indebtedness to 
her this fall. He wrote me a very jubilant letter 
in regard to it the other day. You can’t imagine 
how that has weighed upon him! Perhaps it may 
make her less embittered against him. She ought 
not to blame him for speculating. Nobody blames 
a man for speculating if he’s successful.” Millie 
made a vivacious little moue as she said this, but 
in spite of it Eliza felt dimly that the sentiment 
was significant of the atmosphere in which the 
speaker had been educated. It occurred to her, 
too, that the fact of a man’s using another man’s 
money in his speculations might reasonably be 
considered to alter the question. 

Millie changed the subject for a time to draw 
the other’s attention to the best of the works of 
art hanging on the walls or placed about the big 
room, and ended by giving her a lovely bunch of 
hot-house roses, well knowing the girl’s passion 
for flowers. But as they turned their steps to¬ 
ward the open door she returned to the subject 


64 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


that apparently absorbed the most of her thoughts. 

“I believe Frank has the elements of success in 
him,” she resumed. 44 Papa says he has, and if 
they can only get this copper mine in working 
order they all anticipate a golden harvest. Well, 
remember, Eliza, if any little gathering takes 
place over here I ’ll write you a note, and you and 
Mr. Dow must come over.” 

But here Eliza, with a hasty movement with¬ 
drew her hand and turned away. She was not 
blind to the fact that Millie’s manner had under¬ 
gone a change during her call—that she had been 
treated in a confidential way, indeed; but she was 
not exactly submissive to the patronage. 

44 Very likely I shall find no chance, for we’re 
very quiet,” added Mrs. Dow. 44 Mr. Casgrove 
cares to do nothing but play whist all the day long. 
I’m quite a martyr to the cause. See here,” said 
she, laying a small white hand on one of the four 
gilt chairs that were ranged closely around a little 
buhl table in the center of the room, and waving 
the other over the rest, 4 4 this is the altar he sacri¬ 
fices us all upon! But you and Mr. Dow must 
come over and play with us one night before I go, 
if nothing else. I shall send for you and you must 
come. ’ ’ Eliza, however, did not promise. 

The sun was quite low in the west now, and the 
day at this point was more perfect than before. 
But to Eliza it was not the same. Yet the awaken¬ 
ing was wholesome. Awakenings always are; 
must be, in the nature of things. How foolish she 
had been to trust to a phantom delight that had 
already turned to dust and ashes, like so much 
Dead Sea fruit. As she went along she excitedly 
congratulated herself on having had this made 
plain to her. 4 4 How fortunate it was I came, ’ ’ she 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 65 


said. “ I am so glad, at least, to be under no mis¬ 
apprehension. Yes, I am glad I came, and what¬ 
ever Millie’s motive, she really did me a service. 
Noxious things have their purpose, like some 
weeds in the garden. Not that she is a weed, but 
she is a little noxious. It was impossible not to 
see how anxious she was to let me know that Na¬ 
thaniel had an interest elsewhere, lest I should be 
laying some unction to my vanity from my little 
acquaintance with him. Well, women are all the 
same. They all have some little malice in their 
composition.” 

Eliza was buried deeply in her own thoughts 
just as one of the many carriages rolling along the 
beach road suddenly came to a stop near her, and 
she heard her name called. It was Mrs. Dow, re¬ 
turning from a meeting of the Managers of the 
Orphan Asylum, jogging along in a one-horse 
rockaway, drawn by a stout cob, his well-groomed 
sorrel coat shining in the sunshine. Mrs. Dow 
divined a change in the girl at once as she got in 
beside her. 

“How did things go, Eliza? Did anything 
happen ?’ 9 she asked, curiously. ‘ ‘ Nobody ate you 
up, it seems.” 

“No,” rejoined Eliza, quite literally, too spirit¬ 
less even to smile, “Mr. Casgrove wasn’t around. 
But I saw Millie, and she was very decent. ’ ’ 

“And what does she say of Frank?” 

“She says Frank is doing well; that he has 
acted with prudence and can see his way to suc¬ 
cess.” 

“That’s easily said. Of course, she has faith in 
him. What more does she know about it than a 
baby? But I see that she has quite talked you 
over.” The carriage rolled along for a time. 


66 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

This latter part of the day was its crowning point 
of beauty, and their attention was involuntarily 
arrested by the exquisite picture before them; the 
softly shaded pink and amber sky, and the round 
flame-colored ball not far above the horizon, cast¬ 
ing a crimson trail upon the sea. Nothing more 
gloriously, softly golden could be imagined than 
that big disc as it dipped toward the edge of the 
restless, chamelion-hued waters. Each remained 
silent for a while, buried in her own thoughts. 
Then Mrs. Dow glanced at her young cousin. 
“Yet, nevertheless, something about it seems to 
have depressed you. What is the matter?” she 
said. 

“Oh, no,” stammered the poor child, with a 
start, seeing the need of arousing herself to more 
active effort to hide the wound from which she 
was inwardly bleeding. “Certainly she didn’t 
talk me over,” with almost anger. “She didn’t 
influence me at all. I’m not a weather-vane! I 
told her, of course, that you had your own reasons, 
and in any case you had a right to do what you 
liked with your own. But we didn’t discuss the 
question. I wouldn’t discuss it.” Eliza, in the 
consciousness of her own loyalty, fell back on a 
sort of passionless indignation, ignoring that 
yearning to hear herself confirmed in her own 
feeling of having acted aright that besets the 
strongest and most self-reliant. “She struck me 
as quite well-informed in regard to business mat¬ 
ters, and made me feel that Cousin Frank had 
perhaps not acted as foolishly as we thought. Of 
course, I don’t mean to judge either way. She 
said he would be able in a short time to pay off his 
debt to you.” 

“Yes, there’s nothing succeeds like success. I 
see she’s been making a convert of you, ’ ’ said the 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 67 


widow,. dryly, indulging a quick instinct of un¬ 
reasoning jealousy and fear that the two younger 
women should throw their influence together and 
turn against herself. Self-reliant as she was by 
nature, she longed for affection in her lonely life 
with so few near ties, and had deeply felt the 
alienation from her loved son. She had been true 
—inflexibly true, to her own sense of right, though 
her conduct, in this case, must have seemed to 
most people to be widely opposed to the prompt¬ 
ings of a mother’s heart. Eliza’s tacit assent and 
approval, as that of the one with the best compre¬ 
hension of the network of circumstances that had 
constrained her to do as she had done, had been a 
comforting staff, whose support she had not 
thought of until now that there was danger of its 
being withdrawn. 

To lose this solace would have been the last 
drop of bitterness in her cup. “ Nothing justifies 
wrong measures,” continued she, severely, 
‘ 4 though I suppose everyone will say so. But I’m 
glad if luck is on Frank’s side. He was always 
lucky. It’s just like him to fall on his feet.” She 
turned to the girl at her side. 4 4 Eliza, you know, 
you ought to know, why I have done this. I tried 
to keep Frank’s expenses within the limits of 
what I had myself. He was always extravagant, 
you know, all through his college days, and he 
drew heavily upon my resources, but yet I man¬ 
aged to do it. You know I always had a little of 
my own, and I couldn’t bear to think of my boy 
profiting by the Dow property. ’ ’ 

It was strange to see the proud woman, with 
that deprecating look on her face, condescending 
to this plea of extenuation. But Eliza, in that 
numbness of sympathy that comes with an ab- 


68 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

sorbing interest of one’s own, was not very re¬ 
assuring. Sbe thought of it afterward with a 
pang of regret. 

“I know you did as you thought best,” with the 
chill of fatigue in her air and voice. “So I told 
Millie. It naturally seems strange to outside 
people that money matters can come between 
mother and son. I think there is danger of being 
too practical; of letting these considerations gain 
an undue importance in our lives.” 

The elder woman turned and looked at the 
younger with a sort of pain in her eyes. Eliza did 
not see the appeal. She was in the deep waters of 
trouble herself, and could not help protesting 
mutely against an encounter with any outside per¬ 
plexities. So much depends upon our own vary¬ 
ing moods. Joy and happiness fill full the foun¬ 
tains of our sympathies, which overflow toward 
those about us; but it is not until disappointment 
and grief have taught their lesson and disciplined 
us slowly to bear the excision of all our most cher¬ 
ished hopes and wishes that we can feel patiently 
and sincerely with the trials of those about us. 
Young life is, as a general thing, too eager and 
intense to be depended upon for much sympathetic 
insight. It was precisely because Eliza had lived 
so little in herself that her cousin had found her 
companionship so sufficient. Now that her own 
life was beginning to shape itself in an independ¬ 
ent current it was not to be expected but that she 
would resist this absorption of herself in the lives 
and destinies of those about her. The same re¬ 
bellious feeling that had beset her the evening 
before, even before Nathaniel spoke, returned to 
her; and with it an impatience of whatever was 
enigmatical in her cousin’s conduct. “For it is 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 69 


one of the chief earthly incommodities of some 
species of misfortune, ’ 9 says Hawthorne, in the 
Marble Faun, ‘ ‘ or of a great crime, that it makes 
the actor in the one, or the sufferer in the other an 
alien in the world, by interposing a wholly un¬ 
sympathetic medium betwixt himself and those 
whom he yearns to meet.” Eliza, much as she 
loved her cousin, was held off by this ‘‘ chill re¬ 
moteness of position.” 


Y 


Nathaniel hurried through the active duties of 
the day with an undercurrent of remembrance 
of the evening before. It somehow made him feel 
younger—he was in reality thirty-two, and his 
acquaintance with ladies had lately been of a dis¬ 
tributive rather than concentrated hind, and not 
at all exciting—now that his existence was taking 
on brighter colors, that, in fact, he seemed to have 
an interest in life. 

“Are you going down into the country tonight? 
Come down with me to Coney Island instead, ’ ’ an 
old friend accosted him, meeting him as he was 
hastening to catch the ferryboat, his hands and 
arms laden with Mrs. Dow’s commissions, the 
variously-shaped parcels indicating that he had 
not availed himself largely of her permission to 
have things sent by express. The friend, a man 
with whom he had once been upon terms of in¬ 
timacy, but wdiom he had lately lost sight of, was 
overjoyed at the encounter, and became quite ur¬ 
gent, looking much disappointed when he found 
h im self refused. “You’re growing quite a 
stranger. I’ve lots to tell you,” he said. “Why 
won’t you come and have a talk over old times? 
What do you do down at—?—Where is it?—Se- 
tauket? Any fishing there? I didn’t know it was 
popular. ’ ’ 

“Yes, it’s getting rather too popular,” Na¬ 
thaniel said. “It’s a great fishing place, you 
know. They’re catching bluefish now, off Mon- 
tauk. I heard of one weighing over eleven pounds 

70 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 71 


the other day. I presume if anyone cared for the 
sport they’d find plenty of it. But I’m not down 
there pleasuring exactly. The old Dow place is 
there—my grandfather’s place, you know—and 
the widow depends upon me for her man of busi¬ 
ness. That draws me down there pretty fre¬ 
quently. Oh, it’s a dead-and-alive little spot, as 
far as that goes.” 

His friend looked quizzically at him. 

“I’ve heard of the old Dow place, and I’ve al¬ 
ways had a curiosity to see it,” he said. ‘ 4 I’ve a 
good mind to run down there sometime if they 
have as good bluefishing as you say. But isn’t 
there something else draws you, I say old fellow? 
What’s the interest? Come, confess! Now I 
come to look at you, you have almost the look of 
a family man.” But Dow only laughed, and 
started on, waving his hand and just catching the 
boat by stepping upon it as it receded from the 
pier, and left a rapidly widening line of water to 
be seen below. 

The pleasant excitement of the evening with its 
possible developments seemed so secure of prom¬ 
ise that it was welcome rather than otherwise to 
have a time of reflection while the train sped 
smoothly along through the country, nearing the 
ocean at one time and again rapidly passing 
through fields and woods and neat inland villages, 
so that the transit appeared brief, and the little 
station at Setauket was reached without his hav¬ 
ing noticed the lapse of time. It was dusk when 
he made one of the few striding figures that struck 
across through deeply shaded, grassy byways, to 
the row of waiting homes near the beach. Lights 
were twinkling out of the windows of the house, 
and the sound of music and of young voices gave 


72 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

it an unwonted air of revelry as lie approached it. 

He bounded up on the steps, feeling the gay 
strains infect his own blood. The revelry re¬ 
solved itself into very simple elements; Eliza at 
the piano, the children jumping and hopping 
about to the music. What she was playing seemed 
to Eliza almost silly, now that she had another 
hearer, though she went on with great energy, but 
with more and more nervousness, as her lively 
imagination painted how childish and primitive 
this performance must seem to the alien city 
vision looking on. 

Two of the younger Jakways, with one of their 
mates, had been at the house all the afternoon; 
and when Mrs. Dow and Eliza, on their return, 
had found them, Eliza had set herself to amuse 
them. These occasional visits were great privi¬ 
leges to her brothers and sisters, and their com¬ 
ing this afternoon had obliged the girl to struggle 
against the depression that threatened her. She 
had not been outwardly any different from her 
usual self during dinner time; only it had been 
physically impossible for her to eat more than a 
few mouthfuls; but, as there were the children 
for her to look after no one noticed this excepting 
her little sister, who instinctively detected that 
Lizzie was not in good spirits, and came and 
threw her arms around her neck, full of fond 
solicitude. They were not very prosperous look¬ 
ing children, and their home life was rather a 
pinched one. The older ones regarded their sis¬ 
ter, who had been translated to a region of silk 
dresses and piano practice, as a very enviable 
being, little thinking how near she sometimes came 
to envying those of them who had not emerged 
from the chrysalis stage. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 73 


Nathaniel saw with surprise that she scarcely 
glanced up, and when she did exchange a slight 
nod with him it was with an agitation that made 
her seem cold and distant, though she met his eyes, 
glowing with light, as he perceived the pretty, 
lively group. Unconsciously to himself, pictures 
formed in his mind of a bright, possible future, 
when the old house which he loved would show 
again a gay, hospitable side to the world. 

His aunt rose from her large chair by the open 
window, and came to relieve him of his parcels, 
laughingly commending the judgment he had 
shown in executing her commissions. 

“You’d make a model family man,” said she. 

“So my friend Hosmer told me when he saw 
me,” Dow said, catching up the youngest of the 
Jakway children, a chubby boy of five years, and 
giving him a dance to the music on his shoulder, 
to Jemmy’s exuberant delight. The widow led the 
way to the dining-room, where the young man’s 
dinner had been kept waiting for him. 

“But first, you must tell me how the froggie 
goes,” insisted Master Jemmy, in his most impor¬ 
tunate style, before he would be set down. Na¬ 
thaniel, having in an incautious moment, given 
him a taste of his dramatic capabilities in this 
line, was obliged to repeat the success whenever 
he saw him, and in deep, guttural bass, calculated 
to impress the guilty conscience of the man who 
listened, gave the croak of the big frog that said, 
“Nathaniel Dyer, Nathaniel Dyer, He shall be 
hung, He shall be hung, ’ ’ and then showed how the 
little frog chimed in in a high piping voice, to the 
total demoralization of the accomplice, “Ellicott, 
too, Ellicott, too.” 


74 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

The children in some way identified him with 
Nathaniel Dyer, and supposed it was his own 
name he was croaking out. This made it seem 
exquisitely funny, and even Eliza .could not help 
smiling at the youngsters’ infectious chorus of 
mirth. 

“Do it again! Oh, do it again!” Jemmy peti¬ 
tioned, like a young potentate from Nathaniel’s 
shoulder. 

“Mercy! What an interesting sight you are, 
Jemmy,” cried Eliza, with natural sisterly ner¬ 
vousness, as she observed that his face and hands 
were stained with the juice of the blueberry pie 
he had eaten for dinner. “That is the result of 
my coming away and leaving you. I thought 
Myra was to look after you.” Jemmy was cer¬ 
tainly a graceless looking object, and as belonging 
distinctively to herself was felt to be an em¬ 
barrassment. “I’m glad the blueberry season has 
come to an end. The children enjoy it in such an 
unequivocal fashion, and it makes such sights of 
them, with their fingers and bibs all stained. I 
don’t know whether it’s that or the thought that 
the summer is so near at an end that always makes 
me hate to have blueberries come in season. I 
always see them go out with more satisfaction.” 

“You bear scars received in the good cause, 
don’t you, Jem?” Nathaniel said, as he lightly 
dropped him to the ground. 

“Oh, let them enjoy,” pleaded Aunt Margaret. 
“Eliza, you keep at that boy altogether too much. 
It’s no way to check children all the time. The 
pies were very nice. I’m sorry to see the last of 
them. I ought not to eat pastry, but I took a 
little nux after it, and I don’t know as it’ll hurt 
me. ’ ’ Taking little homeopathic pellets and pow- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 75 


ders was, as Nathaniel declared, Aunt Margaret’s 
one dissipation. 

Eliza seated herself on the steps. She could 
look into the dining-room and see Nathaniel’s 
light head as he sat eating his late meal, under 
the portrait of his grandfather, the old Nathaniel. 
Nathaniel’s father, who had been the soldier son, 
had been regarded as the flower of the flock. He 
had married a young girl of fine family, and after¬ 
wards been killed in the war. The old man’s lan¬ 
tern-jawed face, with its sharp steely eyes, was 
just above his grandson’s, and even while a faint 
resemblance came out, the unlikeness was strik¬ 
ing. 

Old Nathaniel Dow had been looked up to as a 
sort of patriarchal head by the rather numerous 
colony of Dows settled in the vicinity. To be 
sure, it had been a matter of opinion as to whether 
Grandfather Dow’s money had been made in the 
most gentlemanly and altogether legitimate way; 
and it had been observed that as the Dow property 
swelled in bulk and importance there had been a 
corresponding decrease in the hank account of 
some of his neighbors—men with whom one would 
otherwise have supposed him to be on the friend¬ 
liest of terms. He had been staid, as if no erratic 
Dow blood ever ran in his veins, was a regular 
attendant at church, where none were prompter 
or more sonorous in responses, gave to the poor 
in a way that left his pastor little to complain of, 
and in all respects conducted himself as an exem¬ 
plary member of society should do. His virtues 
—and more—were upon his tombstone. Eliza had 
read them there often. She knew that the old man 
had left a goodly fortune behind him, and Dow 
house in its present stately form, with a proviso 


76 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


that it was always to be regarded as the family 
homestead. A flight of imagination took her back 
to those early years after the war when a widow 
and an only child, a fair-haired little fellow in 
kilts, in obedience to this clause had come to form 
part of the household. She had been told that the 
chance guest who sojourned there for a night 
could not have failed to be impressed by the gen¬ 
erous hospitality of those days. Tom Dow had 
been in his element in playing the host, though 
not always discriminating in the object of it, and 
never, as she could well believe, had the old man¬ 
sion had a more spirited mistress in its palmiest 
days than her lovely cousin had proved herself in 
those early years. Mrs. Dow’s crisp voice at her 
side startled her out of her dreaming. 

4 4 Are you all taking it easy out here ? You have 
no idea how warm it is inside, ’ * she said. 

“I ought not to be so lazy,” Eliza bethought 
herself, hastily starting up. “I had ever so many 
things to do.” 

She had heard Nathaniel’s firm step as he came 
nearer. He joined the group. 

44 Things to do at this hour? What can you find 
to do at this time of day? This is the hour for 
relaxation,” he said, rather reproachfully. 

44 Do the duty nearest, as Carlyle advises,” she 
answered. Eliza had lately been reading 4 4 Sartor 
Resartus.” 4 4 Come, Jemmy, let me take you up¬ 
stairs and wash your hands. I’ll leave it to any¬ 
body if Jemmy isn’t a duty just now. ’ ’ There was 
a forced cadence in her laughter that struck the 
young man’s ear. 

44 Is that entirely a safe guide for one’s ac¬ 
tions?” he interposed, in rather a low voice, as 
she still waited upon the reluctant movements of 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 77 


the child. “You know it’s agreed now that that 
advice of Carlyle’s has had more than its due 
weight. There are far-off duties, too, that are 
important. For instance, it is important to enjoy 
a night like this, especially when you consider it 
is the last of August and we may not have many 
such.” Nathaniel smiled persuasively, to give 
more significance to his words. “Won’t you come 
out again for a stroll on the beach later?” he 
asked. 

Quite unconsciously, as it appeared, Mrs. Dow 
threw her influence into the same side of the scale. 

“I agree with you, Nat; I don’t altogether like 
your Carlyle. I notice Eliza makes an oracle of 
him lately,” she said. “He doesn’t seem to see 
that everybody is human. He needs more of the 
milk of human kindness. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I think you’re rather true about that, 
Aunt Florence,” Nat agreed. “He does want 
everybody to be Olympian. He hasn’t much pati¬ 
ence with ordinary, commonplace people.” 

“Well, I have,” proclaimed this far from com¬ 
monplace, rather Olympic woman, with her usual 
decision. “I don’t believe in always straining up 
to such a height. It makes Eliza morbid to study 
him so much. ’ ’ 

“I don’t study him,” Eliza rebelled, almost 
fractiously. Even Mrs. Dow sometimes made her 
feel that she could hardly breathe. In her annoy¬ 
ance she took forcible possession of Jemmy in a 
way calculated to provoke a conflict. 

“But she promised to tell me a story,” said 
Jemmy, beginning to cry. He had played hard 
and was in a demoralized condition, ensuing upon 
the drop to dullness from intensely exciting play. 
The Fordyce children had just gone and Jemmy 


78 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

was awakening to bare reality. “ She can’t go lest 
she breaks her promise,” he whined. 

“Is your sister under your authority, my small 
man?” Dow was impatient that such a small rival 
should interfere with his plans for the evening. 
“Aren’t you rather youthful to display so marked 
a tendency to monopoly?” 

“I did promise him, Mr. Dow. Jemmy, it is not 
necessary for you to cry so. I have no intention 
of breaking my word. ‘A promise made should 
be a promise kept,’ you know, especially to chil¬ 
dren,” smiling a fleeting, apologetic smile to the 
young man that made him sure the rebuff she had 
just given him was intentional. Not that she had 
quite meant this at the beginning; but now that it 
was done she felt glad of the excuse the presence 
of the children had given her to avoid him. 

She redeemed her promise to them, though with 
an absent mind and heart ill at ease. But the chil¬ 
dren seemed to miss some of the usual spirit in 
the narration, hard as she tried to feign the in¬ 
terest she did not feel. As their attention flagged 
and drowsiness claimed their heavy eyelids, she 
was not sorry to turn her effort at entertainment 
into the channel of song. So she went over the 
principal favorites until the two restless heads 
were at last quiet on the pillow. How sweet and 
cherubic the round, infantile faces looked with 
the light rings of hair tossed about! and she 
was free to give rein to her own troubled thoughts. 

She had lately been ridiculing the weakness of 
superstitions, yet it was in instinctive reaching 
out for comfort and sympathy that she opened the 
old Bible and put a finger on a line to explain, to 
cheer, to illumine her in her course. She was 
startled by the words that looked out at her as if 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 79 


in warning. “Keep thy heart with all diligence, 
for ont of it are the issues of life.” The words 
had never before been fraught with any deep 
meaning. There was a volume of fr$sh, half- 
understood experience suggested by that text; 
and, as she sat, abandoning herself to her deep 
dejection, Jemmy stirred, asking for a drink of 
water. She had neglected to provide any; and 
urging him to wait patiently for her return, she 
went down to the dining-room for it. 

She was lightly shod, and reached the side¬ 
board with scarcely a rustle; but, while she stood 
there feeling in the dark for a glass, her attention 
was attracted by voices from the veranda imme¬ 
diately outside. She could not hear what Mrs. 
Dow said; she could only hear Nathaniel’s reply. 

“Now, Aunt Florence, there’s no need of your 
talking in this strain. You ought to know me well 
enough to know I’m not a very pliable character. 
I’m not likely to fall in with any one’s plans ex¬ 
cepting my own.” Nathaniel spoke in an easy, 
matter-of-fact way, uttering the words between 
puffs at his cigar. “I have often told you, Aunt 
Florence, I should never consent to take the 
house, ’ ’ he went on, in a firmer tone. ‘ 1 In the first 
place, there is no reason why you should not oc¬ 
cupy it yourself yet for a great many years to 
come. And, in the next place, I have not the least 
claim to it. I should never consent to be burdened 
with it, penniless as I am. More than that, I 
could not afford to be.” This doubtfully 
acquired property was surrounded, as far as the 
fact of its possession went, with a sort of distaste 
in his eyes ; it was shrouded in mystery, though he 
loyally cherished too much confidence in his aunt 
to care to lift the veil. 


80 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

“But don’t you like Eliza?” queried Mrs. Dow, 
in a tone of evident disappointment. How could 
she be so childish? thought that young person, 
who was just leaving the room when those words 
reached her ears, and made her pause instinctive¬ 
ly, half afraid that her own light movements 
would betray her whereabouts. “I have fancied 
that you two got along very nicely together,” the 
widow continued. 

4 ‘Why, yes, we do get along fairly well,” Nat 
said, in a noncommittal tone. Yet there seemed 
something of defiance in his way of saying this. 

4 4 And yon can’t have eyes in your head if you 
don’t see how pretty she is!” 

44 Oh, yes, she is pretty enough,” said he, with 
an enigmatical little laugh. 44 Yes,” he added 
slowly. 4 4 But Aunt Florence, allow me to remon¬ 
strate. You throw her at my head a little too 
patently. I don’t mean now so much, but in the 
young lady’s presence. Keep your broad 
demesne, Aunt Flo,” added he, more lightly. 44 I 
won’t be bribed. No, indeed, I won’t take that 
elephant oft your hands. Why be obstinate?’’ 

44 Do you call me obstinate, too?” said she, with 
a sad intonation in her voice. 4 4 Well, if I arn to 
have the name, I will have the game. I won’t give 
up my cherished purposes yet.” 

44 You must where I am concerned,” said he. 

44 Must? That word sounds natural from your 
lips. It is you who are obstinate. You are a true 
Dow. And it sounds as if you meant it. But Eliza 
admires you, Nathaniel.” 

44 I am not so sure of it,” returned he, quietly. 
This dodge, so successful with Benedick and 
Beatrice, did not seem to work in either case here, 
nor was it consistent with modern ideas of deli- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 81 

cacy in the minds of either of the parties practiced 
upon. 

Nathaniel’s quiet strength had always caused 
Florence Dow a certain wonder. How different he 
was from Frank! fully as much of a man, but 
without any of that restless self-seeking that 
marked the character of her son. Not that Frank 
was selfish exactly—she would fain not have be¬ 
lieved so—but he was full of ambitions with which 
his mother could little sympathize; while there 
was between herself and Nathaniel the link that 
binds together all simple and noble natures. 

“In other words, you tell me to go about my 
business,’’ said she, in reality chagrined, but 
yielding the point good-humoredly. 

Eliza had just made a wild break for freedom; 
but a sudden and unexpected encounter with a 
chair made her heart stand still, and she sank for 
a moment on its welcome support. Nathaniel’s 
voice was so clear; every word reached her. 

“To tell the truth,” said he, “I don’t think it 
best for outside parties to interfere in such affairs. 
You know the affections are wayward things. I 
know I never could fancy anybody myself just be¬ 
cause my friends wanted me to. I hope to good¬ 
ness you haven’t been saying anything of this 
sort to that girl, Aunt Flo! ” In fact, it had just 
occurred to him that here might be a solution of 
those distant and offish ways to himself that had 
so puzzled him this very evening. 

Eliza would hear no more, but glided rapidly 
upstairs on her errand. Never had Jemmy re¬ 
ceived a more loving smile from his sister than 
now, when she found him sitting up in bed and 
calling crossly for her, in his half awake condi¬ 
tion. Never had she been kinder than as he lay 


82 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


and tossed and chattered wakefully for some time. 
But at last the child fell asleep, and she sank 
again into a deep dejection. It seemed to the poor 
girl that she was now called upon to drain the last 
drop in her cup of misery. Stung by her deep 
sense of humiliation, by the feeling of her com¬ 
plete dependence, the utter misery of her position 
overcame her, and tears could no longer be denied 
such relief as they brought. Sobbing violently, 
she threw herself upon the lounge, though making 
a determined effort, after the first paroxysm was 
over, to restrain any audible sob, for fear of dis¬ 
turbing the children; and worn out at length with 
the conflict of feeling, she fell toward morning 
into a fitful and uneasy slumber. 


VI 


With the daylight things had partly righted 
themselves, and last evening’s extreme sensitive¬ 
ness and humiliation seemed to her to he exag¬ 
gerated. Our troubles have a way of looking so 
much more tolerable in the morning—so much 
more tolerable and 4 ‘to be endured,” to misquote 
Dogberry. As she tossed her soft brown hair up 
on her head, pinning it into place with a few dex¬ 
trous touches of her slight fingers in a fashion that 
above the frill of her crisp dimity gown was very 
suitable to a warm morning, as well as being 
charmingly graceful in effect, Eliza regarded her 
own image in the glass with laughing eyes, won¬ 
dering if she were a blighted being, and noticing 
that the darker shadows about her grey eyes and 
the paleness that was the result of two almost 
sleepless nights were beginning to show. 

She had heard herself rejected, or as good as re¬ 
jected. Listeners proverbially hear no good of 
themselves. Above all, she must endeavor not to 
show resentment. He was something of a flirt; 
Eliza did not blind herself to this; Millie had told 
the truth there. She had spoken with a knowledge 
of human nature deeper and better to be trusted 
than her own when she had warned her of thinking 
too much of their chance association, their acci¬ 
dental propinquity. Eliza now felt that she had 
made that foolish mistake; she had thought too 
much of a little politeness, of a few words of 
friendly interest, a glance or two of admiration, 
a tender word or so. She would try and show Mr. 

83 


84 JANSE DQUW’S DESCENDANTS 


Nathaniel Dow she was not such an inexperienced 
provincial as he had thought her. How to do that 
was the subject of much bitter and troubled 
thought with her while outwardly engaged in get¬ 
ting the two unruly children in order for the day. 

It was a sultry day, and she felt especially lan¬ 
guid. Getting the children ready for breakfast 
always seemed a task to her unaccustomed hands, 
and this morning they were especially hard to 
manage. Jemmy had stolen out of bed at the 
first golden shoots of the sun-god, and had been 
standing in his bare feet and night clothing, in 
silent ecstasies over the gambols of a little colt 
that was within sight in the pasture, while his two 
sisters were still asleep in the hot, bright room. 
But he was kept rather quiet by his interest in 
this queer little creature, which appeared to be all 
head and legs, and which pranced around the 
staid-looking grey mare with an unsteady and 
awkward sportiveness which Jemmy considered 
exquisitely comical. It was Nannie who proved 
the intractable one, and time and patience were 
exhausted before her sister succeeded in getting 
her mane of rich brown hair into presentable con¬ 
dition; and by this time a glance at the little 
watch at her belt had told Eliza she had nothing 
to fear from the presence of one person at the 
breakfast table. The closing of the hall door 
added its quota of information that Nathaniel had 
departed for the day. 

“Nathaniel told me to say good-bye to you for 
him. He won’t be down again for some time. He 
intends to go up into the Catskills with his 
mother,” Mrs. Dow said, as she took up her bud¬ 
get of letters and papers. It was her only refer¬ 
ence to the evening before, and she went on out of 
the room. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 85 


Eliza had a few light duties to detain her for a 
while; and then, much heated by the exertion and 
feeling a dislike to the confinement of four walls, 
she took a book and followed by the children, 
started for a secluded spot in the garden, intend¬ 
ing to read while they played near. But her 
thoughts were too much perturbed to admit of any 
such concentration, and the words made no im¬ 
pression upon her mind, though she sat looking at 
the printed page, on which the shadow of dancing 
leaves and the glancing spots of sunshine filtering 
through them were thrown from the pear tree 
above her head. It was just the atmosphere to be 
favorable to dreaming. 

The young girl could not keep her mind from 
running on that curious Dow past. What sort of 
people were they, these dead and gone Dows, who 
had left so sombre a heritage behind them? The 
dim wish, which had been so strong in her the 
night before to turn her back upon the problems 
about her and to return for good to the safe, home 
nest, returned with all its old force. From where 
she sat she had a view of the back of the roomy old 
house, three stories in the main part, with the 
lower wing and kitchen stretching out, and the 
lattices and roofs of rambling verandas with 
stairs winding down into the garden. The house 
in its present form had been the growth of years. 
Eliza did not trust too implicity all the stories 
told of the family; yet there were some of those 
dark annals that were unfortunately not to be 
doubted; recitals of sinfulness and pride and 
mystery gathering to an issue, as of a sort of 
ulcer of morbid and unhealthy growth, in one or 
two dark deeds of passion and crime that were 
supposed to give to the names with which they 


86 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

were associated a thrilling traditional interest. 
For the Dows had always been proud of that 
checkered past, viewing it with complaisant leni¬ 
ency ; experiencing a strange, psychological fasci¬ 
nation in watching those traits crop out in each 
other that had once led to so tragic a result: 
laughing at the family anecdotes over dinner 
tables laid in that comfortable old style of hospi¬ 
tality described as “groaning,” itself, while it 
lightened the hearts and held aloof the cares of 
many a wordly spirit ; telling the dark tales and 
prizing the sinister collection along with the fam¬ 
ily Bible in its heavy brass mountings, and the 
eight-day clock that could play tunes and tell the 
day of the month. They had been brought up 
face to face with this dream-like shadowy. pres¬ 
ence, and had come to contemplate it without 
shrinking. It had little more effect upon them 
than to quicken their young steps in a dark room, 
or call up a light shudder and flutter of half-wel¬ 
come fright and dread when nights were stormy. 

Eliza was seated in a small, pagoda-like sum¬ 
mer-house at one end of a long walk. As she 
looked up this walk with its hedges of rose bushes 
that earlier in the year were all alive with sweet¬ 
ness and color she realized suddenly that this had 
been the scene of that dreadful event of which, as 
a small child, she had heard a dim account. Since 
then she had not heard it often referred to. Now 
the whole occurrence forced itself upon her mind 
with a strange insistency. Yes, here was very 
nearly the spot where it had happened; so she had 
been told. Thomas Dow had been giving a dinner 
to some of his political cronies. He had gone into 
politics, and office holding had proved a costly 
matter to him, drawing him into much convivial- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 87 


ity, and acting as a constant source of disagree¬ 
ment between himself and his wife. The latter 
had not been present, but as the day had been a 
warm one, she had gone out with her little son 
Frank for a stroll in the garden. She had not 
been aware that they were in sight from her hus¬ 
band’s seat at the table. His companions, who 
had been growing more and more intoxicated, for 
they were celebrating a party victory, could only 
testify that Tom Dow had all at once appeared 
much excited by something he had seen; that he 
had started up with a smothered ejaculation, and 
gone with hasty steps out on to the veranda that 
led to the garden. The next they had known a 
shot had rung out, calling them all to their feet 
and sending them out to find their host lying on 
the ground at a short distance from the steps, 
and his wife alone with him, a staring, pale, hor¬ 
ror-struck woman, her arms around him, and her 
light muslin dress dyed with his blood. She had 
been heard to cry out in the first frenzy of grief 
and remorse, 1 1 It is all my fault, my fault! I am 
wholly responsible! Oh, what can I do ? How can 
I ever live if he dies! I shall feel as though I had 
killed him!” 

After those first moments of excitement, when 
the report had been spread broadcast, and the 
strong arm of the law had entered the hushed 
house, and called the widow from the death cham¬ 
ber to lay its iron grip upon her, she had told a 
different tale. It was a plain straightforward 
one from which she did not deviate in the least, 
but it did not gain implicit belief. Her account of 
the occurrence was that as she and her little son 
were walking in the garden in sight, though she 
did not know it, of the dining-room windows, she 


88 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


had been joined by Jarvis Marshall, who had come 
to bid her good-bye before sailing on a long cruise 
to China and the East Indies. The talk between 
them had been short, though Jarvis had lingered 
long enough to repeat to her some of the rumors 
in regard to her husband, trying to convince her 
how unworthy he was of her love and faith. When 
she had refused to listen he had become angry 
and violent, and in the heat of their colloquy she 
had not noticed that they had come near the house. 
It had only been her wish to escape from him 
until suddenly her attention had been attracted by 
seeing her husband, evidently flushed with wine, 
coming out on the steps with a revolver in his 
hand pointed at her companion. To avert trouble, 
she had instinctively tried to shield Marshall, 
urging him, at the same time, to go away. As her 
husband came within reach she had arrested his 
hand and tried to hold him, but her intercession 
for her old lover had only seemed to madden him. 
Drawing away from her he had again aimed his 
revolver at Marshall, who upon that had rushed 
upon him, and there had ensued a struggle for the 
possession of the weapon, in which it had been dis¬ 
charged. She thought the revolver was in Mar¬ 
shall ’s hands at the moment of discharge, but she 
felt quite sure it was accidental, and that Jarvis 
Marshall had not intended to do anything but dis¬ 
arm her husband. 

At first there had been no one to substantiate 
the truth of this statement. Of the gentlemen who 
had been at the dinner there had not been any 
who could give a clear and connected idea of the 
occurrence. Jarvis Marshall had gone on his 
cruise, and before any action was taken to sum¬ 
mons him he was sailing away for the East. 


JANSE DOIJW’S DESCENDANTS 89 


Frank, a boy of five years old at the time, had left 
his mother for the moment and run off playing 
with a big dog, while Margaret Dow had been in 
her own room, and had only come out at the sonnd 
of the shot, as the others did. The trial, as Eliza 
knew, had been conducted by the best of metro¬ 
politan lawyers. The Dows had spared no money 
in her poor cousin Florence’s defense. It had 
been a hard-fought contest, for much in the evi¬ 
dence had been against her; the most damaging 
thing being the proof of the recent transfer of the 
house, which, as furnishing in the mother’s wish 
to secure possesion of this for her son, a sufficient 
motive for the act, was much enlarged upon by the 
prosecuting attorney. 

Yet the acquittal had come easily enough at 
the last, the case turning unexpectedly upon the 
testimony of a man employed about the place, 
who, while putting away his garden tools for the 
night in a box set in the shrubbery near had been 
a witness of the whole affair; had recognized Mar¬ 
shall, and had seen him start and run rapidly 
away after the shot was fired. He had given 
chase, he said, but had been unable to overtake 
him, and having been called away to attend the 
funeral of an uncle in South Hampton he had re¬ 
mained there and so had heard nothing more of 
the incident. Being an illiterate man who seldom 
saw the papers his ignorance of his own duty in 
the matter and the poor lady’s extreme need had 
kept him from coming forward with his testimony, 
not realizing that he had in his possession the very 
link needed in the chain to prove her guiltless. 
There was, however, a large reading public some¬ 
what divided in opinion on the subject. Of those 
in Setauket who had personally known the unfor- 


90 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


tunate parties involved, could they not find plenty 
of arguments to prove that one of such low origin 
as this woman whom they had seen elevated to a 
high position and influence over their heads, might 
be guilty of anything? Yet those who saw in her 
a modern Clytemnestra found little to strengthen 
their theory as time went on, and they saw no 
signs, of Jarvis Marshall’s return. But then, 
theories often seem to be able to stand without the 
supporting prop of fact; for, 

“Faith, fanatic faith, once wedded fast, 

To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last.” 

Eliza had been seated there some time, and in 
the. preoccupation of her thoughts she had not 
noticed that the intermittent staccato the children 
had kept up had been succeeded by older voices. 
As a trellis covered with grapevines shut out the 
figures from her view it was not until the tones of 
those colloquists were raised in more excitement 
that they attracted her attention. 

“It seems very little to ask of you. I think you 
owe it to me. Why will you not do it?” She 
recognized the widow’s voice. 

‘ ‘ To what end ? It is forgotten now. Why rake 
up that dead and buried affair?” A man’s voice 
answered, so low that Eliza’s ears were strained 
to catch the words. 

“Dead and buried? Yes, it is easy to talk! I 
do not regard it so. No, it is a danger, for me— 
for both of us, until we face the truth, and the 
whole truth. There must be no half measures; 
nothing else will serve.” 

“Why do you worry? That doesn’t sound 
worthy of a woman of your strength of mind ” 
the man’s voice said. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 91 


“Don’t overrate my strength of mind,” she re¬ 
sponded, excitedly; and the lessening noise of 
footsteps and voices announced that they were 
withdrawing from the vicinity of the summer¬ 
house, and Eliza held her breath for fear she 
should betray her presence so near them. Only 
one solution occurred to her, that it was Frank 
Dow to whom his mother was apparently so hope¬ 
lessly and passionately appealing. The young 
girl took little note of the words at the time; she 
knew that Frank Dow had been expected, and 
dread of herself encountering him, at first over¬ 
powered everything else. But the words she had 
overheard had left a distinctly unpleasant im¬ 
pression, that momently grew stronger. Great as 
her feeling of dislike and prejudice had come to be 
toward Frank Dow, she experienced a sensation of 
surprise that he could have so degenerated. This 
strange interview seemed to her to add another, 
and that the most mysterious cloud of all, to the 
gloom that had begun to overshadow their once 
pleasant if uneventful life. 

The pressing need of looking for the children 
brought her out from her cover before long to find 
the garden lying in sunny quiet and solitude, 
though she could hear the distant click of some 
garden tool to tell that work there had not been 
entirely suspended. Not finding the children in 
the house she suspected that they might have wan¬ 
dered off to the pastures, where she followed them. 
She discovered them in a corner of the big meadow 
where the brook ran limpidest—a condition more 
favorable for the gentians Nan had just found 
than for dry shoes and stockings—and their sister 
quickened her steps in their direction when she 
saw how near was their vicinity to the old Alder- 


92 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


ney bull, Jake. They were not averse to her 
proposition that they should return home, as the 
period of their visit was about over; though 
Jemmy reluctantly saw the last of the little colt 
as they went up through the lane, where it could 
be seen lying down in the tall grass of a side hill, 
looking, with its head erect, like a knight in chess, 
as Nannie observed. Both of them were sorry not 
to bid the kind lady of the house good-bye, but 
they acquiesced when their sister told them she 
was engaged, and that it was better for them not 
to hunt her up. Eliza bethought herself at the 
last of something it was necessary for her to say 
to the man Martin before she went away. 

She found him and his assistant together. Mar¬ 
tin was sitting down on a garden bench, smoking 
his pipe. 

“Is this allowable, Miss?” was his question. 

“I don’t know as there is any objection. It is 
not allowed around the stable, of course. There 
are very stringent regulations in regard to that.” 

“There’s no smoke without some fire, eh? But 
I am not a stableman. So there is not that diffi¬ 
culty.” His manner was jocose, watchful, sinis¬ 
ter. It seemed to her—odious thought—as if he 
patronized her. She gave her orders very ex¬ 
plicitly about some transplanting that was to be 
done, trying to hold her own against the man’s 
curious manner. He made no direct reply. 

“ Young miss is a great hand at gardening,” he 
remarked, instead, taking his pipe out of his 
mouth for a moment, as he knocked out the con¬ 
tents preparatory to a refilling. ‘ 4 You’d think she 
was just out of a nursery.” Eliza’s eyes flashed; 
but the man went on, quietly, as he filled his pipe! 
“There’s where I learned what I know; in a nur- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 93 


sery—a great one—one of the largest in the 
States. I tell yon the mail business they do in 
that place is something extraordinary. They send 
plants and bulbs and seeds all over the country. ” 

Carl, to whom he communicated this intelli¬ 
gence, was an Alsatian of French proclivities, 
which he announced by trolling the Marseillaise 
as he went for the cows. He was stupid as Teu¬ 
tons can sometimes be, and cast a glance of admir¬ 
ing respect and youthful interest combined at the 
young lady, as he responded, “Miss looks yung 
to know so much about blants and dings.” 

Eliza, was somewhat mollified by Carl’s evident 
good intentions; but it was plainly derogatory to 
her dignity to be so much discussed. She finished 
her directions and returned to her young charges. 


VII 


They took the way home by the beach, which 
was shorter than the grey, sunlit road, but it 
obliged them to pass through the old graveyard, 
with its willow trees and sunken, irregular stones. 
Eliza was familiar with every foot of the old spot, 
yet today her glance fell upon some of the oldest 
inscriptions with a certain unwilling interest. 
The earliest one of all, that of Maria Douw, relict 
of the late Fob Janse Douw, the sailor whose body 
had been lost at sea, fixed the date of the naturali¬ 
zation of the family to the soil as some time prior 
to the year 1707, the date of the widow’s death. 
This little old stone, of a soft, crumbly variety, 
had lost all its edges and the inscription was al¬ 
most illegible. There was a lordly column or two 
of marble and a stile whereby one might get into 
the place and another where one might get out— 
an impulse so sure to follow upon the first that 
it was a happy thought that placed them in such 
convenient juxtaposition. The stretch of beach 
lay almost directly beyond, with sand enough for 
walking, though there were stonier portions, and 
some grand old boulders, shaggy with seaweed 
and encrusted with barnacles. Their brown 
shoulders were now half covered by the tide as it 
came creeping in. 

Eliza walked slowly under her Japanese um¬ 
brella, while the children ran back and forth in 
their search for such nautical treasures as the last 
tide had thrown up on the sand. Now it was a 
starfish with broken points, now a stranded jelly- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 95 


fish, no longer lovely and iridescent, hut simply a 
gelatinous mass which Nannie loudly adjured her 
brother not to touch, having once had an experi¬ 
ence of the painful method of defense some of 
them can practice. Eliza was full of perturbed 
thought, and did not notice that the morning was 
drifting away with their slow progress until they 
turned into the village, past the disused wharf, and 
so through narrow ways and devious turns that 
brought them out upon a broad, well-shaded side 
street of the town. 

They had seen a schooner coming up the bay 
with all sails set, and all three had lagged the 
more to watch its advance; and after they turned 
their steps away the two children still snatched 
eager glimpses, from among the trees, of the white 
sails or the decks alive with activity and bustle. 
No sooner had they entered the house than their 
father came hurriedly in in pursuit of some¬ 
thing, and called to all who would to come down 
with him to the harbor to see it come in. Silas 
Jakway was a man of mild manners and refined 
appearance, though he was only a ship ’s carpenter 
by trade. He was always kind in his family, but 
there was very little of sentiment or demonstra¬ 
tion among them, and Eliza did not expect more 
than the word of recognition with which he 
greeted her before he went out again, with all the 
younger fry eagerly following at his heels. She 
was left with her mother and the two girls next in 
age to herself. 

Eliza longed to open out all her perplexities; 
but an instinctive shrinking from her mother’s 
narrower view kept her from it. She.was now im¬ 
pervious to any hints about Nathaniel, and only 
mentioned him in the most casual way. She was 


96 JANSE DOTJW’S DESCENDANTS 


willing to relate anything else of interest that had 
happened at Dow House, and so it came that she 
told at length about the fright that her cousin 
Florence had had the evening before the last, and 
of her hallucination in thinking she had seen the 
face of her old lover, Jarvis Marshall. 

“I declare! If that wasn’t a queer notion of 
Florence’s. I hope she isn’t going to believe in 
spiritualism now she’s getting along in years,” 
was her mother’s comment. She could give but a 
divided interest to anything, and the conversation 
went on under the slight disadvantage of her 
being detained in the pantry by her duties there. 
She was rolling out pastry, and the knocking and 
whacking of the rolling pin made it necessary that 
Eliza should raise her voice, and even repeat some 
items of information, as she continued her rela¬ 
tion. 

“I thought perhaps it was the gardener who 
looked in at the window; just curiosity, you know! 
He might do that. He’s a queer man, anyway.” 

“Who! Andrew!” Mrs. Jakway emerged 
temporarily from the pantry the finished pie held 
ready on the palm of her hand to be consigned to 
the oven. 

“Oh, no, Andrew’s gone. Didn’t you know 
that! I thought I’d been home since then. We 
have a new one, and I don’t like him near so well. 
I thought he meant to be impudent this morning. 
He said I looked as if I was just out of a nursery. 
I suppose he didn’t like to have me order him 
around. Do I look so awfully young, Hammy?” 

Mrs. Jakway laughed. 

“You don’t look so dignified’s you might,” she 
said. “Seems to me you look about the same’s 
you did when you were twelve years old. But 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 97 


I don’t believe be meant so mncb by that. More 
likely be meant a real nnrsery. And that makes 
me think, Jarve Marshall’s written to Lawyer 
Suydam lately, from somewhere’s near Rochester, 
np in Genesee County. He wants bis money sent 
there. You know the family thought that he might 
have been lost at sea, they didn’t hear from him 
for so long.” 

“Why, yes, cousin Florence thought that, too,” 
Eliza cried, with animation. “So they’ve heard 
from him. How absurd in cousin Flo to think she 
saw him! ’ ’ 

“Her nerves are getting unhinged, I suppose, 
having had so much trouble,” said her mother, 
charitably. “It may make some difference to 
Florence, too. Jarve and Nicholls—Clint’ 
Nicholls, you know—Florence’s husband—went 
into that stone quarry together, and they do say 
it’s turned out to be worth a good deal. Seems 
ridiculous for him not to come and claim his prop¬ 
erty, doesn’t it? Lawyer Suydam has the place in 
his care, you know. He’s had it ever since Mis’ 
Marshall died. She didn’t leave any will. But 
what I started to say was, he says he works in a 
nursery. Genesee county’s full of nurseries, I 
guess. But what a pretty new waist that is, 
Lizzie. ’ ’ 

Eliza was very ready to exhibit whatever she 
had on, for in the company of a mother and two 
sisters with a much larger share of good looks 
to set off than they had means to do it with, the 
talk soon naturally came to dress. All the Jak- 
way girls were pretty, though, as it was often 
remarked, Eliza’s was so much more refined a 
type. To be back again among the practical wants 
that made her father bowed as if conscious always 


98 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


of some yoke, and her mother’s brow lined while 
she was still scarcely of middle age, made the girl 
feel as if her own troubles were egotistical and 
over-strained, and the great desideratum of being 
sheltered and cared for were all she had a right to 
expect. It always took off the ideality of life for 
her to go home. In the face of their narrower por¬ 
tion she felt a little convicted herself that the 
round of daily work in which she saw them en¬ 
gaged, the plain, bare house, the inelegant confu¬ 
sion that surrounds a large family of growing 
children, unless means are large and the manage¬ 
ment good, did so much to reconcile her with her 
own lot. Yet, today, she felt that there was a 
homely content here, too, and in the first deep 
trouble and need of her life she yearned for sym¬ 
pathy, impossible as it would have been for her 
to have confided her perplexities to either mother 
or sisters. 

“Pm glad you came, Eliza,” said her mother, 
as she went busily back and forth from stove to 
pantry, baking and putting down fruit, notwith¬ 
standing the heat of the morning. ‘ ‘ I just got into 
cutting out a new dress for Sarah yesterday, but 
I didn’t know how to make it, and I thought Fd 
put it by and maybe you’d come down and give 
me some new ideas. Sarah wanted a shrimp pink, 
but I tell her the season’s so late now she wouldn’t 
get enough wear out of it to pay for making it up. 
So I got her a plum color. I think it’ll be a good 
color to wear. ’ ’ 

Sarah was in the senior class at the High 
School, and being just at the age when her girlish 
bloom was beginning to attract attention, and to 
excite her own admiration as it looked out at her 
from the glass, she had longings for dress that had 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 99 


never been satisfied, though the plum color prom¬ 
ised to come the nearest to realization. 

4 ‘We don’t have a chance to know much of the 
fashions, ’ ’ explained she. She was always a little 
strange with her sister when she came back, and 
now looked shy and awkward, working her 
shoulders in her dress as she talked. “Captain 
Phillips’ daughter has a city friend to stay with 
her, though, and she has a dress made in the way 
I’d like mine, just like some of the queer old pic¬ 
tures in the parlor at Dow House. Don’t you 
know them! Those with the full skirt and a short 
waist and sleeves with a frill. ’ ’ 

Eliza smiled, acknowledging that Sallie would 
look very pretty gotten up in quaint fashion like 
Miss Pursell Dow, or some of the other old minia¬ 
tures. 

“But, Sallie,’’ said she, “I think you study 
quite as well as if you had a more extensive peep 
at the fashions. Remember, you must try and 
keep up with your class; you know you want to 
teach. Don’t do as I have done!” Eliza spoke 
earnestly, for she heard that Sarah was disposed 
to neglect her studies. A career of happy inde¬ 
pendence might be open to her young sister, if she 
would only appreciate her advantages; but Sarah 
was not very willing to profit by another’s experi¬ 
ence, especially when that experience looked so 
attractive at a distance. 

Mrs. Jakway brought forth the plum color, and 
they adjourned to a cooler inner room to cut and 
design the new gown. It was a good thing for 
Eliza to be obliged to concentrate her thoughts 
upon these simple, eveiy-day matters—(perhaps 
Sarah might have objected that plum-colored 
gowns were not every-day matters to her!)—and 



100 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

suggestion soon led to execution. So the a ^ e J' 
noon was spent in planning and sewing, much to 
Sallie’s satisfaction, and her sister’s increased 
tranquillity of mind. She carried back with her 
that night more of a feeling of well-doing at the 
thought of Sallie’s joy in her own appearance the 
ensuing Sunday than had been hers for some 
time. Her own existence did not seem so useless 
and selfish, though she still felt that there was 
very little she could do to brighten the lot of those 
at home. 

It was not until she neared the steps again on 
reaching Dow House that the oppression, that any 
sense of mystery casts over us, returned to her as 
she recollected the conversation of which she 
had been an unwilling listener; just then, however, 
her cousin’s voice reached her ears, speaking in 
a commonplace way to one of the servants in the 
kitchen. How reassuring the. accustomed, the 
commonplace is to us all. Eliza looked at her 
cousin when she met her a few moments after 
with much the same curious interest we might feel 
toward one of whom we had just been dreaming 
some strange and fantastic dream. 

They sat alone at dinner, and Eliza communi¬ 
cated eagerly what she had learned. 

“Oh, I heard something you’ll be interested to 
hear, Cousin Flo! Jarvis Marshall isn’t dead. 
He’s written a letter from Genesee County— 
that’s somewhere up near Rochester, you know, 
mamma said—and he wants his money sent him 
there. His property’s in lawyer Suydam’s hands. 
Why don’t you go and see about it, Cousin Flor¬ 
ence? They say it’s turned out to be worth a 
good deal. You ought to see about it! ” 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 101 


“Who told you all this?” her cousin asked, 
rather sharply. 

“Mamma told me. Everybody knows it.” 

“I think it's time I did, certainly, if all the 
gossips know it.’ ’ 

“Oh, Cousin Flo, you know mamma isn’t a 
gossip! But, of course, everybody is interested, 
because we all thought he was dead. I thought 
you thought so, too. You said so the other night. ’ * 

“Oh, yes, I’m glad to learn he isn’t dead, of 
course, ’ ’ Mrs. Dow said. 

Eliza was disappointed that her information 
had not been received with more effusion. She 
had expected it would have produced much more 
effect. 

“You act so queerly, Cousin Florence! As if 
some one had told you before! ’ ’ 

“No, indeed, you’re first on the field, Lizzie,” 
her cousin said, more affectionately. “I’ll look 
up the matter of the property. There’s no harm 
in seeing Mr. Suydam, though I don’t believe 
much in that part of it. And how did you spend 
the day, Lizzie? I missed you. I drove over to 
Yaphank and had a lovely drive. I was thrown 
in with an awfully nice young clergyman over 
there. I wished you had been along. ’ ’ 

Eliza did not acknowledge these implied good 
wishes directly. 

“I’m going to work harder at my painting, 
Cousin Florence,” was what she said. 


VIII 


One week glided into another and that again 
went by, and still Nathaniel Dow did not come 
down to Setauket. Eliza had had time to regain 
some measure of her old equanimity, though it 
was useless for her to pretend to herself that she 
was quite the same. Acting upon her new resolves 
she tried to occupy every moment of the sultry 
September days with some employment, until the 
constant confinement began to tell more and more 
upon her, and she lost both flesh and color. Mrs. 
Dow could not help seeing a change, but as Eliza 
had lately become rather more reserved with her¬ 
self, she hesitated to urge the girl to confide in 
her, being really at a loss as to any cause for the 
alteration. And then she was at present so much 
absorbed in her own anxieties, that she gave the 
less thought to what was going on around her. 
Eliza sometimes met her cousin’s eyes fixed upon 
her—met and shrank from them with an involun¬ 
tary feeling of defiance. 

The young girl was becoming aware that there 
was something in their life that left a vaguely 
unpleasant train of impressions. This was the 
singularly good understanding that seemed to 
exist between Mrs. Dow and the new gardener. 
Why should she see them one day walking slowly 
down the garden path together, talking earnestly 
and evidently so buried in their conversation that 
they did not even see that she was approaching! 
Why view them again from a knoll in the grove 
whither she had gone to sketch, seated side by 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 103 


side on a secluded garden bench below her out of 
sight from the house? After the first incident, 
Eliza had been cnrious, and had made some light, 
half-joking reference to it, expecting to have light 
thrown upon it, as a matter of course. But Mrs. 
Dow’s manner when thus taken by surprise had 
betrayed to her immediately that the subject was 
an unwelcome one. In consequence of the way in 
which this question had been parried she had 
lacked the courage to speak of Frank Dow’s visit, 
though she had felt quite sure in her own mind 
that he had been there. 

This state of things affected Eliza strangely. 
It was all that was needed to repel her rather 
diffident sympathy and affection. She was more 
homesick than ever. Their old life, which, quiet 
as it had been, had at least been peaceful and open, 
was becoming more and more a thing of the past. 
The young girl could not help being influenced by 
this mystery, and it added to the estrangement 
that had always conduced to hold her and her 
cousin apart. 

Mrs. Dow had been to Mr. Suydam, but she had 
not been very communicative of the result of their 
interview. The lawyer had confirmed the popular 
report as to the letter, which she had been allowed 
to read, and it was quite true that there would be 
some little property—a few thousands, finally, 
perhaps—coming to herself and Frank in the 
future, from her first husband’s estate. Florence 
Dow told about this with so much less than her 
usual energy and enthusiasm, that it was plain to 
Eliza that there was intentional reserve, and 
somewhat offended, she forebore to express a fur¬ 
ther interest. 


104 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


There had been a sudden change in the weather, 
which by shutting them in from the outdoor air 
had made their life seem still more depressing. 
We all know a cold week in September, with rain 
off and on. The earth is brown, the skies are 
laden, and the day vanishes with a little show of 
eagerness, taking its heavy thoughts off with it, 
as if it knew it had been but dull company. Just 
at the last it is apt to brighten up for awhile, with 
a few repentant, futile gleams of sunset. Inside 
the windows are shut down, and a light blaze is 
welcome on the hearth, lighting up the early dusk 
of the room. 

On one of these cold days as it neared nightfall 
Eliza threw a warm wrap about her shoulders and 
went out for a walk. She had accomplished a 
good piece of work during the day, sitting for 
hours at her painting, and now felt the tension 
of mind and nerves sure to ensue upon prolonged, 
and especially, unaccustomed application. 

She did not feel inclined to go in the direction 
of the sea, which looked black and dreary, with sea 
gulls whirling about the cliffs and the spray leap¬ 
ing high in sight; but turned down a lane marked 
with wheel-ruts in the grass, which had been kept 
cropped by the two pretty Jersey cows as they 
went flirting their tails from the barn to the pas¬ 
ture. There was something in the departing day, 
with its threatening, overcast skies and chill free 
wind, that acted as a tonic on the girl’s nerves, 
and it was with lighter spirits than she had had 
for some time that she pursued her course. A few 
blackberries beguiled her here, some plumes of 
goldenrod there, and she had not gone far before 
she came to a stand near a ripened field of oats 
that were bending and rustling in the breeze. She 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 105 


surveyed it a short time with her mind full of 
other thoughts before it occurred to her that she 
had been wishing for some of the graceful spears 
for a copy in some work she was doing. Why not 
get enough of them so that she could also use some 
of them for decoration? She knew of one or 
two places where it was very desirable to cover 
up the old, streaked wall in some such way. The 
proprietress of Dow House was, as a rule, more 
ready and willing to give to charitable objects and 
to further missionary enterprises among the dis¬ 
tant heathen than she was to put out money upon 
her own rambling mansion. 

The low stone wall bordering the field, to be 
reached through a thicket of wild asters and 
goldenrod, offered at first a decided obstacle to 
her covetous plans; and she would probably have 
given up her idea altogether if she had not 
noticed that one of the large stones had fallen out 
of place. By applying a little force to it an open¬ 
ing was easily effected, the stone rolling over into 
the field beyond. “Open Sesame,” she laughed 
to herself, as she contemplated the vandalism of 
which she had been guilty; but it was so simple a 
matter now to surmount the wall that she was 
soon busily engaged in helping herself to the long 
stalks, and was not aware that any one was ap¬ 
proaching until a voice near her made her start 
and turn, her cheeks growing red in the sudden 
surprise. 

“Well, Ruth, what success? You appear to 
have gleaned to some purpose. ’’ A moment after, 
he laughed aloud. “Wliat made you start so? 
You looked as guilty as if I were the farmer who 
had caught you trespassing. Imagine me with 
plenty of soil on my boots, and a straw in my 


106 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

mouth, and perhaps you can tell me what you 
would have said for yourself if you had actually 
been caught in the act. ’ ’ 

“I know gleaners are seldom bold enough to 
enter an unharvested field. But I wanted some 
about the house, and especially I wanted some of 
them to copy, and so I was tempted to come in 
and help myself.” She laughed an embarrassed, 
agitated little laugh, still trembling from the 
surprise of his sudden coming, and she was thank¬ 
ful for the intervening distance that made her feel 
secure from his observation, as she turned away 
and went on with her occupation. 

“A feminine reason. Eva had no better. He 
tempted me and I did eat,” said he, feeling the 
doubts as to his welcome founded on her rather 
inexplicable behavior when he had seen her last 
somehow insensibly melt away. “They are very 
pretty. Oats always seem to me to speak of an 
every-day, practical comfort and plenty, less 
poetical than wheat, not the 1 bearded grain’ at 
all—” 

“Oh, beards are not indispensable,” Eliza in¬ 
terrupted, catching the words, as she stood look¬ 
ing about her as if meditating further onslaught. 
Her eyes only came around to his face as if by 
accident with a flitting, merry challenge, at which 
he laughed a little, running one hand through the 
waving brown hair that adorned his own chin. 
Such a handsome beard, like that of a Greek 
statue! No girl could be unaware of that. 

“I should think the owner of these fields might 
object to having his oats cradled by your dress 
skirts,” he soon observed, as he leaned his elbows 
contemplatively upon the fence. 

“It does seem rather conscienceless,” Eliza ad¬ 
mitted, becoming conscious for the first time of 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 107 

the flattened wake she was leaving behind her. 
She had thrown aside her red shawl before she 
climbed the fence, and now stood in her dark 
dress, with the feathers in her hat fluttering in 
the wind, and her hair blowing about her face. 
Nathaniel still leaned upon the wall looking at 
her, and did not speak at once, and when he did 
his words showed whither his thoughts had been 
straying. 

‘ 4 What a change this is since the last time I was 
down ,’ 9 he remarked. “I can’t realize that it is 
only two weeks. It has seemed an age.” 

“ Yes, how sudden this change was!” Eliza said, 
ignoring the latter part of his remark intention¬ 
ally. “It was such a great change, and was so un¬ 
expected; just as if some one had been playing 
on an organ, and while you were enjoying all the 
beautiful harmonies and were all unprepared, the 
organist should suddenly let out all the stops, 
and startle you by a great outburst of sound.” 

Eliza did not know how this was received, 
simply because she did not look; she only knew 
that he said, after a moment, of silence, “Yes, 
there is a great change. It looks as if there would 
be another storm tonight. We must go down on 
the beach, if possible, before it comes, and see the 
waves. They must be something grand / 9 

He looked at her as he spoke, but Eliza did not 
meet the deep gaze. She felt that his thoughts 
had been preoccupied, and blushed sensitively to 
have been so far carried away froin her usual 
reserve as to have spoken of her childish fancies. 
A sudden recollection of the lady who wrote such 
original letters—Millie’s gifted correspondent- 
thrust itself upon her, and came to cast a damper 
over the gay mood that the encounter with him 


108 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


and her own enjoyment of the boisterous, chill 
wind had together conspired to produce. She 
had caught sight of a look of tender, softened, 
even anxious abstraction upon his face, and the 
perversity of jealous pain with which this thought 
had pierced her had made calm reasoning an im¬ 
possibility for the moment. Yes, no doubt that 
was where his thoughts were. Why had he not 
stayed there, if he could not tear himself away, 
even in spirit? 

“And now, the immediate question before this 
excited community is, how am I to get out ? ’ ’ said 
she, intentionally ignoring what he had said, and 
contemplating the wall before her with a comi¬ 
cally unfavorable glance. With her hair and 
skirts blowing about her she did indeed suggest 
an “excited community,’’ as she had called her¬ 
self. It did not seem quite so easy to surmount 
now as when there was no one to observe her 
movements; but she was a country-bred young 
woman, and with the assistance of his hand made 
light work of it—so light as to afford only the 
most momentary glimpse of a delicate foot and 
ankle. 

“This isn’t exactly ‘cornin’ thro’ the rye,’ is 
it?” Nathaniel said, with a bright smile. How 
was it the girl would not recognize the tender 
meaning of that look? And yet perhaps it was 
only the natural feminine feeling of vexation at 
finding that her dress was caught, and being 
obliged to loosen it with what grace and patience 
she could summon, that made her seem so unrecep- 
tive, so indifferent and stupid. 

“No, and we can’t call it coming to one’s oats, 
as it is only foraging upon some one else’s. Yet 
I am so triumphant when I think what a fine oma- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 109 


ment they will make in several places where I 
have already seen them in my mind’s eye that 
I can’t feel exactly penitent for my theft.” 

She had been loosening her dress from where it 
had caught, and now accepted the shawl he had 
picked up, allowing him to put it around her 
shoulders, though she would not notice the little 
air of particularity with which he did so. 

“It was this spot of color in the landscape that 
caught my eye and told me where I should find 
you, ’ ’ said Nathaniel. 1 ‘ I saw it as I came through 
the dummy-track. You must have wondered how 
I found you out. What has gone on since I was 
down here last?” 

They were walking along now, and an awkward 
silence seemed settling upon both. 

“Gone on? Would we so far do violence to 
our natures as to have anything go on?” said 
Eliza, with vivacity, the bitterness of that jealous 
feeling still rankling. “No, indeed, we are more 
true to ourselves than that! ’ ’ 

“True to yourselves? That is an excellent 
thing to be,” said he, smiling. “Thou canst not 
then be false to any man,” playfully, but with an 
eager, yet half doubtful look into her face, the 
blood mounting slightly to his own. 

“No, falsehood is not our besetting sin,” Eliza 
could not help saying, though she had meant to be 
so worldly-wise, so cool and indifferent. That 
sweet, rapt, far-away look that she had surprised 
in Nathaniel’s eyes had aroused a force the 
strength of which she had never been called upon 
to resist before, and she was borne along by its 
current. “We are not educated up to it, prob¬ 
ably. We are too unsophisticated and countrified. 
We leave that to our city friends.” 


110 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


Her companion was puzzled and silenced. The 
satirical tone did not seem natural to Eliza, though 
he had know her to indulge in something of it 
once or twice before. She was evidently put out, 
he could not imagine for what reason, though as 
a young man with not exactly an under-estimate 
of himself he felt a flattering hope that his own 
long absence from Setauket might have been the 
real cause at work. This suspicion helped to con¬ 
sole him in the perception that his little attempts 
at sentiment, at pleasant nothings, had all been 
snubbed. Yet he was more discomfited than he 
cared to own. 

“I believe you’ve never forgiven me something 
I once said about the town and the country. As if 
I meant any of you!’’ he exclaimed, at last. ‘‘It's 
an old fight between the town and the country 
mouse. But I don’t think of any of you as country 
people. Upper-class people, who have so much 
communication with city life, are in reality very 
much in touch with city people nowadays.” 
There was the little touch of class feeling that all 
Dows possessed in this. He took out his watch 
and looked at it. “I judge it must be near the 
dinner hour, my watch says seven, ’ ’ he remarked. 

He paused a moment, and drew the girl’s atten¬ 
tion to the sunset, where in the western sky stripes 
of cumbrous, massed up indigo and yellow were 
streaked along the horizon; and above was a soft, 
pinkish grey sky with one small, bright star al¬ 
ready visible. Then, even while they were look¬ 
ing, came still more brilliant fire, and the cloud 
above shutting down, of bluer and bluer indigo, 
and the star shining ever momently clearer. But 
look I coming toward it great threatening masses 
of cloud, lurid and reddish on the margin—a fell 
purpose edged with insinuation. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 111 


The girl beside him turned to him with a 
stronger impulse of confidence. 4 ‘ I hope nothing 
is going to happen—nothing bad, I mean. I feel 
a sort of foreboding, ’ ’ she confessed. 

4 4 You superstitious, Miss Jakway? I am sur¬ 
prised! I didn’t think it of you. I don’t see any 
reason for foreboding, unless you are depressed 
at the thought of more rain, which we shall most 
certainly have, sooner or later. I hope there will 
be nothing worse, and I shan’t be the one to pre¬ 
dict it. I didn’t come down here to be a bird of ill 
omen. I am willing to predict, however, that I 
shall eat a good dinner.” 

The smoke from the chimneys of the house was 
curling up among the treetops. The red gleam of 
the open-grate fire in the sitting-room could be 
caught between the branches. 


IX 


They were all seated at table when Eliza 
joined them, and Mrs. Dow looked np with an air 
of interest as she entered, asking how it was that 
they had come in together. While Nathaniel was 
explaining how he had found Miss Jakway in her 
neighbor’s oat field, the widow’s transparent 
satisfaction in it all roused again the perverse 
obstinacy of the girl. Yes, no doubt it all seemed 
to her to be working well. Had she no thought for 
her, Eliza, that she should rejoice in seeing her 
put into such a false position? Nathaniel saw it 
clearly, she felt. Indeed, was that not what he 
had complained of? Throwing her at his head I 
Nothing of this absurd by-play escaped him, 
though he might be willing to amuse himself with 
it a little en passant. He might declare that he 
was not a pliable character, but she, no doubt, was 
regarded as so much wax, to be molded to their 
purposes. 

Nathaniel seemed to be in the best of spirits. 
He praised impartially everything on the table 
from the fowls and cauliflower that were such a 
pleasant foretaste of Thanksgiving delicacies, to 
the rich red Indian pudding which was traditional 
in the Dow family, and somehow was never eaten 
in full perfection elsewhere, and the splendid dish 
of early grapes and great Bartlett pears, which 
Mrs. Dow said were part of a general shower that 
had nearly denuded the trees during this week of 
storm. He told excellent stories as they all sat 
over their fruit, one with an Irish brogue so capi- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 113 

tally imitated that it set them all to laughing. 
Yet that there was effort in this no close observer 
would have failed to detect; and once or twice 
Eliza met his eyes fixed in puzzled questioning 
upon her face. But Eliza would not meet the eyes, 
would not read their full meaning. 

The sharp transition from glowing, mellow 
August to autumnal temperature and storm made 
the bright grate fire so welcome that as they came 
in where it was sending its dancing play of ruddy 
light through the large half-octagon sitting-room 
there was no regret expressed on the score of the 
finally departed summer. Margaret Dow sat 
down in a large chair near it, and taking up the 
shining little poker thrust open the lumps of coal 
until they sent up brighter gleams. It was Aunt 
Margaret’s natural place, that chimney corner, 
and poking the fire an important part of her win¬ 
ter ’s occupation. 

1 ‘ This fire feels good, ’ ’ said she. ‘ 6 1 was afraid 
I’d caught cold from the change, and so I took a 
little nux. These changes are very trying. We 
all ought to*guard against them.” 

Mrs. Dow began to look over the little sheet of 
the ‘ 1 Setauket Daily Banner. ’ ’ Like a good many 
women who lead quiet lives, and are a good deal 
thrown in upon themselves, she was a faithful 
reader of the newspapers, looking out upon the 
doings of the world from her obscure corner of it 
with a clear vision, and taking a keen interest in 
politics. Her sympathies were at present strongly 
with the independent or “reform” branch of the 
Republican party; and the editor of the “Banner” 
being a red-hot partisan and “stalwart of the 
stalwarts,” as the definition then was, she could 
scarcely keep silent as she read his diatribes and 


114 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


invectives. Eliza bethought herself of her bunch 
of oats and brought it in, displaying it to the 
amusement of the older women. 

“Why, what did you want of such a quantity!” 
asked Mrs. Dow, who never saw the aesthetic pos¬ 
sibilities of cat-tails and peacock feathers. 

“You’ll see,” said Eliza, mysteriously, as she 
stood, looking not unlike a figure of Ceres, while 
she made a thoughtful inspection of the apart¬ 
ment. ‘ 4 These old walls need covering up all over 
the house. There’s a discolored spot there over 
those horses’ heads that ought to be concealed. 
It came there during the last storm. That re¬ 
minds me, Cousin Florence, there’s a leak in the 
roof.” 

“Don’t tell me so, Eliza, It’s not exactly deli¬ 
cate in you to remind me of what a tumble-down 
old mansion I am mistress. If there’s anything 
I hate it’s being thrown upon the mercy of masons 
and carpenters.” 

“Of the Setauket variety, at any rate,” re¬ 
marked her nephew. 

“Oh, there you are reflecting upon Setauket 
again, Nat. I don’t believe Setauket is particu¬ 
larly distinguished in that respect. They are the 
same everywhere. There’s always something to 
be done to a house, and it seems as if one was 
always waiting the pleasure of some of the gentry. 
I expect the old house will tumble down about 
our ears one of these days, and I don’t know but 
that I shall let it.” 

“You’ll get it off your hands in that way, Aunt 
Florence,” Nat said, coolly. “Miss Jakway, I 
think some of your grain would be very appro¬ 
priate up there,” as he rose and stood on a chair 
to adjust it for her. “I wonder if Pharaoh’s 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 115 

horses ever had oats. They seem all mettle, as 
if they always fed on them; and yet, although 
we read of the remarkable fatness of the pastures 
m Egypt, I .don’t recollect anything about oats. 
Did you notice,” he asked, as he descended from 
his elevation, ‘‘that I have opened the piano in 
a very suggestive manner?” 

“ Suggesting that you intend to sing for us, I 
hope,” said she, with a decidedly mischievous 
look as she turned away. “But, won’t it injure 
your voice to sing so soon after dinner?” 

“Don’t be too quick! I didn’t say that was my 
intention. I thought perhaps you would play for 
us a little first. I have often heard you playing.” 

“But you know I don’t play, Mr. Dow." I am 
not musical at all. ’ ’ 

“For a person who is not ‘musical at all’ you 
play some things with wonderfully good expres¬ 
sion. I think you are more modest than neces¬ 
sary. I have always liked Mendelssohn’s ‘Con¬ 
solation,’ and you play it delightfully, as well as 
a good many other things.” 

“Other things equally new,” Eliza finished, 
w T ith a sarcastic intonation. “Why don’t you ask 
me for Beethoven’s ‘Farewell to the Piano’?” 
with pitiless self-scorn as she remembered her 
own slight privileges in the musical line. “Or 
‘Webster’s Funeral March’? I used to play that 
until Cousin Frank said I should kill him, and 
then he would have put upon his tombstone the 
rede, for the sake of those who came after: ‘Died 
of too much Webster’s Funeral March.’ ” 

“I hope you didn’t stop on that account,” said 
Nathaniel, with unexpected viciousness. No one 
else was an auditor of this little conversation. 

“Well, no, I think I desisted when he threat¬ 
ened to put dynamite under the bass keys.” 


116 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


“I am not so exquisitely sensitive to well-worn 
strains as Frank. They may even be thread-bare 
and I should still love them, sometimes all the 
better. Well, I suppose we must humor you in 
your view that you are not a performer. Now 
you see I shall set you an example of making one ’s 
small talents go as far as they will. My reper¬ 
toire is as hackneyed as yours, though perhaps 
not as classical. I am only a balladist, but Aunt 
Meg enjoys them. Aunt Margaret,” turning to 
the room, “what shall I sing?” 

Much delighted at the prospect of hearing him 
she designated several favorites, and Nathaniel 
dashed them off in a way of his own; a way not 
above criticism as to method and execution, but 
that proved him to have a true musical taste, and 
demonstrated the possession of an extremely 
rich, fine voice. “Across the far blue hills, 
Marie,” was followed by “The Warrior Bold,” 
and that in turn by some nautical songs, in a tor¬ 
rent of melodious sound such as the old walls 
never echoed excepting at his coming. Eliza was 
keenly alive to the influence of music, and though 
she did not give herself up to its sway as openly 
as Aunt Margaret did, those rich clear tones so 
moved her that, when he modulated into a new 
accompaniment, striking into the bright sweet 
strains, so expressive of hope and expectancy, of 
Blumenthal’s “My Queen,” she made some ex¬ 
cuse, and unnoticed for a time even by the singer 
himself, glided from the room. Ah, it was easy 
enough for him to exercise this beautiful gift with 
which he had been dowered! He had been anxious 
to do so, she saw, and as if in contempt of the con¬ 
ceit thus displayed, Eliza’s lip curled as she 
leaned against the hall window, looking out into 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 117 


the night. Yet, in her heart she knew it was not 
conceit, mere love of display that was his motive, 
and that she herself was ungenerous. But her 
soul was in mutiny against this new, strong feel¬ 
ing it was so difficult to stem, to conquer. Why 
was he so bent upon her complete subjugation? 
Why could she not hate him? No, that was impos¬ 
sible, and she lingered at the window looking out 
into the night where the conflict of natural forces, 
the trees writhing in strange, dark, fantastic 
shapes, the low distant roar of the sea sending up 
its white films of spray and the scudding dark 
clouds seemed only in harmony with the unquiet 
she felt within. It was with something of defiance 
that she turned when the young man presently 
followed in pursuit. 

4 ‘What, do you like your own thoughts best?” 
said he, apparently unthinking of the rudeness to 
himself of which she had been guilty in leaving 
the room while he was singing. “I always find it 
is an excellent sign when people care for solitude. 
It shows they have resources in themselves. What 
of the night, watchman? ” He leaned one hand up 
against a side of the deep casement, bringing his 
face near hers as together they looked out into 
the storm. “I should like to see the water all 
lashed into a rage. It must be a fine sight,” con¬ 
tinued he, with a boyish enthusiasm. “I am for¬ 
tunate to be down here tonight. I am generally 
only here in fine weather. Fine weather, like 
spiritless, or too placidly amiable people, becomes 
tiresome if we have nothing besides. Have you 
ever been down on the beach in a storm?” 

“Oh, yes, a thousand times,” was the reply. 
Eliza hardly intended to speak as stiffly and dryly 
as she did. 


118 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


“Have yon? It is years since I have seen a fine 
storm on the coast. I was out in one myself when 
I was a boy, and we considered ourselves lucky to 
escape, after we had been eight hours in peril of 
our lives.” Still the young girl expressed no 
interest, though she was afterward, when the full 
facts of the case were related to her, to admire the 
way in which Nathaniel Dow alluded to an occa¬ 
sion when he himself had acted a heroic part. 4 4 1 
was about to ask you if you would not get on some¬ 
thing—your gossamer and rubbers, or else some 
warm wrap—and go down there with me. I feel 
just in the mood for battling with this wind. Do 
you ever have any wrecks off the point? It is just 
the night for them. Can’t I persuade you to go ? ” 

Eliza seemed to hesitate; she glanced at the 
door of the sitting-room. 44 I’m afraid Aunt Flor¬ 
ence would think I was crazy to go blowing about 
in this wind,” she objected, at last; and she began 
to play with the ribbons on the front of her dress 
with much confusion. 

44 Since when this regard for Aunt Florence’s 
opinion?” Nathaniel was tempted to say, but did 
not. 4 4 Aunt Florence has been young once her¬ 
self, and I know very well was able to sympathize 
with the spirit of adventure in those days,” said 
he, eloquently. 44 I don’t believe she’s changed in 
that respect. ’ ’ 

Despite his blithe, off-hand manner, he was not 
at all at ease, and Eliza suddenly discovered that 
the strong hand near her trembled; and a glance 
into the handsome, flushed face revealed to her 
how earnest was the purpose he was endeavoring 
to accomplish. 4 4 What fatal instinct is it that 
impels us to play with our best affections as reck¬ 
lessly as the savages play with the life they have 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 119 


not learned to make lovely?” enquires a writer. 
And with Eliza it was only an instinct, and a very 
indistinct one. 

“But I am not adventurous,” she objected, 
under the influence of this capricious feeling. “I 
never possessed any of that spirit. I suppose I 
lack combativeness. People tell me I do. I prefer 
peace and quiet and, as you say, solitude.” 

That quick, pained flush on the face of one we 
hold dear! What would we not give a moment 
after to efface the memory of it, to blot out the 
unkind word or act that has caused it! The girl 
thought back upon it afterward, wondering how 
she had found it possible to keep that unconcerned 
look and careless air when the moment after she 
had spoken she had so deeply repented it! But 
pride forbade her to go back now, and she did not 
attempt to palliate her rudeness, though she felt 
rather than saw that he turned and looked at her 
searchingly, as though to satisfy himself of her 
motives. He had counted much on that walk in 
the storm, which he had intended to make a preci¬ 
ous and memorable one; yet he had vaguely felt 
or rather feared, that he would not be successful 
in carrying out his purpose. Just as he turned 
away without a word of comment, there was a 
noise of feet and voices outside, and a ring at the 
bell followed; and their neighbors, Dr. and Mrs. 
Fordyce, were ushered into the hall. Eliza 
stepped forward to receive them, and led the way 
in among the rest. Nathaniel followed them in. 

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good. It 
blew you us this time,” said Mrs. Fordyce, beaten 
into merry mood by the rough pranks of the wind. 
“I know I look rakish, but you mustn’t draw any 
inference unfavorable to the sobriety of my habits, 


120 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


from the state of my hat. It started straight 
enough. ’ ’ 

. “This is preparing for the equinoctial, isn’t 
it?” asked the doctor. 

t ‘ Why, it’s early for it. The equinoctial doesn’t 
come until about the twentieth,” objected Miss 
Margaret Dow. 

•x vj ? ^ thermometer goes as low again as 
it did this morning, our grapes won’t ripen much 
more than they have already,” predicted he. 
“How are yours, Mrs. Dow?” 

“About as usual; not sour grapes as yet, doctor. 
Eliza, bring in some of our muscadines.” The 
company had seated themselves in a semi-circle 
about the bright grate fire, and the young lady 
soon produced an artistic looking dish of fruit, 
being followed from the dining-room by Myra 
with plates and napkins. Dr. Fordyce said he 
had not expected his remark to meet with so sub- 
stantial a response, but be helped himself admir¬ 
ingly to some of the beautiful clusters, which he 
acknowledged were superior to anything he had 
raised as yet. His vines were becoming a pride 
with him, and he was ambitious to equal the prod- 
ucts of the Dow place in time. 


“These are grown in the open air,” observed 
he. Of course, I do not expect to raise anything 
like your Black Hamburgs. I want to thank you, 
for my patient, poor old Sydney, for those glori¬ 
ous bunches you sent him the other day. I happen 
to know that they were very much appreciated, 
—y ‘'he way, I notice that you have a new gardener. 
He seems to be rather a queer customer. Does he 
understand his business thoroughly? Tour last 
man was a rara avis. I used to count on getting 
some hints from him myself. ” 8 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 121 

Mrs. Dow rose, and with that light, firm grace 
peculiar, to herself, went to the large mahogany 
cabinet in the room, returning with a bottle of 
sherry and some wine glasses. 

“ Fruit alone seems cold comfort to offer any 
one on a night like this,” said she, as she began to 
pour out a glass. Eliza Jakway noticed that she 
had grown quite pale, and that her hand shook as 
she poured the wine for first one and then another 
of the circle; though as she sat down herself and 
sipped the generous amber liquid more of its 
natural color came back into her face. The doctor 
did not drop the subject, however, probably not 
having seen anything to lead him to suppose it 
an unwelcome one. 

# “ Yes, I counted considerably upon the informa¬ 
tion I used to get from your other man—What 
was his name? Andrew? Sandy, you called him, 
didn’t you? Sandy McGee? So Sandy was con¬ 
vivial once too often in his habits? Well, I don’t 
wonder you lost patience, but if I could get him 
back I’d take him, if I were you, in spite of his 
pet weakness. All Scotchmen imbibe more or 
less; and he seemed to have natural gifts as a 
gardener. Sandy was my oracle ; and how oracu¬ 
lar he could be! But this man you have now 
strikes me as being a crusty sort of a fellow.” 
Dr. Fordyce balanced his plate and wine glass on 
one knee, pulling off the grapes deliberately with 
the other hand, warming into rather an expansive 
mood under the genial influences of the wine and 
the firelight. “My wife and I were watching him 
today as he was wheeling his wheelbarrow in 
sight of the windows, and she called my attention 
to his rolling gait, and asked me if I didn’t think 
he had been a sailor. ’ ’ 


122 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


Mrs. Dow found it impossible to parry this 
question as she had done before. Eliza could see 
that she was disposed to resent the doctor’s 
dwelling on this subject, as prompted by unwar¬ 
rantable curiosity. Yet this perception did not 
deter the girl from speaking out eagerly. She was 
well acquainted with Dr. and Mrs. Fordyce, and 
was disposed to second any efforts to probe this 
mystery that she found so depressing to en¬ 
counter. 

i 4 He has been a sailor; he told me he came from 
New Bedford,” she cried. 

Mrs. Dow turned and fixed her eyes on her 
young cousin with them narrowed to a searching 
line. Eliza knew that they expressed a veiled 
hostility. 

“Most of our Suffolk County men have been 
sailors; I don’t see anything singular in that,” 
said she. < ‘ Eliza has had a prejudice against the 
man ever since he came. She’s not exactly an im¬ 
partial judge. ’ ’ 

Yes, we thought he must have been a sailor at 
some time in his life. But, as you say, that is not 
unusual. It occurred to me that he was pruning 
rather early,” went on the gentleman, still en- 
joying his grapes and his wine in such a pleasant, 
epicurean way as seemed thoroughly to panoply 
him against any clairvoyance of the somewhat 
combustible nature of the forces with which he 
was dealing. “I generally think not much prun¬ 
ing should be done until later. We had a little 
talk together, and I didn’t know but that he might 
regard it that I was interfering. I thought I’d 
ask if he was acting under orders before I got mv 
foot into it any further.” 

To Eliza’s relief, Mrs. Fordyce here furnished 
a diversion. “John Fordyce, I’m just as nervous 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 123 


as I can be about that plate, ’’ exclaimed sbe, much 
exercised for the fate of the delicate piece of china 
her husband was holding upon his knee in such 
apparent oblivion of it as he talked. “I expect 
to see you bring it to everlasting ruin. And it’s 
some of Miss Jakway’s beautiful painting, and 
if you were to destroy it it would be outside of the 
range of possibility for you to replace it! You 
never could! ’ ’ 

John, thus reprimanded, gave a small whistle 
as he realized the peril from which he had been 
snatched, and submissively put the article in a 
position of safety. His wife began to descant 
upon the beauty of the fruit plates. 

“Aren’t they handsome, John! Oh, I wish I 
dared attempt anything of the kind! But I’m 
afraid I should never finish them,” sighed she, 
with humorous candor. 

“That shows some self-knowledge, at least,” 
said the doctor, who was always rallying his wife 
upon her dilatory habits. “But I wonder you 
don’t dare attempt it. You generally dare at¬ 
tempt most anything!” The wink of the doctor’s 
eye was full of expression. “‘ Beginnings are 
cheerful, ’ you know! ” 

“That’s because I’m too ideal,” laughed she, 
“nothing I ever do satisfies me. Don’t you know 
completed things never have the wonderful sug¬ 
gestiveness of incomplete ones! Why is it all the 
finest things in art are fragments! Would they 
keep the same place if they were whole, I wonder ! 
What arms would ever seem adequate to the 
Venus of Milo, for instance; or what head could 
satisfy us for the flying Nike! I never attempted 
but one plaque. It stayed around in all this glory 
of suggestiveness, this beauty of incompleteness, 


124 JANSE DOUW'S DESCENDANTS 

and from time to time Pd get out my colors and 
give it a touch or so; until finally John knocked 
it off the mantle-piece with his elbow. I told him 
he'd succeeded in finishing it if I hadn't." 

Nathaniel had hardly spoken since they entered. 
Eliza did not look at him, but she knew that by no 
chance did he glance toward herself. He was 
deeply incensed, bravely as he carried it off; and 
so well did he act his part of indifference as he 
sat stroking a large cat that had mounted upon 
the cushioned arm of his chair that she was almost 
chagrined by the bright interest of his look, and 
his complete ignoring of herself. 

. Mrs. Fordyce's last remark appeared to par¬ 
ticularly amuse him. Indeed, most people found 
her a liquant little body, in whose presence the ice 
of stiffness insensibly melted away. She fully 
understood this to be her metier and liked to con¬ 
tribute to the impression as much as possible 
“You don't think that the ‘end crowns the 
^Triri ' y then?" remarked he, with a smile. 

There's a great deal of satisfaction dn seeing 
things accomplished. At least, I suppose that de¬ 
pends upon temperament. There is to me. Yet 
there s something, too, in having an object before 
us. I suppose we must all expect to have our lives 
rather fragmentary—to outlive more unfulfilled 
hopes than we ever see fulfilled ones." 

“There is a good deal of truth in that," said 
the physician, assenting with an emphatic nod 
apparently without stopping to reflect upon the 
phenomenon of so young a man as Nathaniel hav¬ 
ing so hopeless a philosophy. “You know how 
apt old people are to die as soon as they feel that 
they have nothing else to do—that their part in 
tT1i 1S j^mpKshedT We can't fold our hands. 

If the fruit is npe, it will drop off." 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 125 


“ Yes: like old Tom Conklin, who was always in 
litigation. Yon remember him?” said Nathaniel. 
“He had abont a dozen law suits, and lived at 
fend with half the town. At last the suits were all 
decided in his favor, and he scarcely went out of 
the house afterwards. Fighting kept him alive, 
people said.” 

“Well, that poor young Snow, who went crazy 
as soon as they cleared up his reputation and 
proved him honest, is very much such a case, ’ 9 the 
doctor added. “Did you hear that he had been 
removed to the asylum ? ’ ’ 

Eliza and Mrs. Fordyce had been chatting apart 
meantime, and Mrs. Dow had been sitting quiet, 
with a brooding look sometimes seen when she was 
deep in thought. She now roused herself to speak 
quite in her usual composed manner, her clear 
tones sounding distinct and measured. 

“How is that, Dr. Fordyce? I hadn’t heard 
that they had been obliged to resort to confine¬ 
ment, though I knew that he had acted a little 
oddly at times. How sad that is! How do you 
explain it, doctor? Did you ever know him to 
show signs of insanity?” 

“Not at all. I used to see him constantly. 
Rather a fine grained fellow—quite so!—sensitive, 
proud. I had a great sympathy for him. He 
used to come over and talk to me, and I found him 
excellent company. Used to seem so philosophi¬ 
cal, never got excited in speaking of his troubles, 
or of the injustice done him. But I think he was 
such an honest man, and felt the mortification so 
keenly that the strain just wore him out—made 
all the fine chords a discord: ‘like sweet bells 
jangled and out of tune,’ as you know the poet 
says.” 


126 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

‘ 4 Strange,’’ said she, musingly, as if much 
struck by the whole subject; but the talk soon 
changed to other things and she was soon again 
drawn into it. When the clarion note of politics 
was sounded she manifested more of her char¬ 
acteristic positiveness and sparkle; and the 
Fordyces finally left without having observed 
that their entertainers were any less social and 
united in spirit than appeared on the surface. 
From their point of view the evening had been 
agreeable. Mrs. Dow was a fine woman, though 
never quite even in manner; always liable to sug¬ 
gestion of storm. But Nathaniel was just right; 
there were few finer fellows than he; and Eliza 
came in for her full share of commendation. The 
doctor remarked to his wife that he had never 
before seen her appear to so good advantage. 
And more than that, he said, as she sat there in 
the firelight he thought most people would have 
agreed with him that she was as lovely as any 
Greuze. 

44 Pshaw! I never saw any Greuze that was 
half as pretty as she is,” said Mrs. F., who had 
her own ideas about art. 

The subject of this opinion had been relieved to 
have them go, for there seemed to her to be some¬ 
thing electrical in the atmosphere this evening, 
indoors as well as out.. Her cousin’s face had an 
intensity a little peculiar—or so she imagined it 
—while Nathaniel’s averted eyes and cold avoid¬ 
ance, especially when, upon their rising while the 
guests were going, he pointedly eschewed her 
vicinity as if her very proximity were obnoxious 
—this affected her as so unlike his usual con¬ 
sideration that it was all she could do to keep up 
under the wretchedness it caused. Yet pride 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 127 


nerved her to seem unconscious of it and to appear 
even livelier than usual. As soon as the visitors 
had taken their departure the group remaining 
had dissolved as if by common consent. Nathaniel 
made some excuse for retiring early, and rose to 
bid them good night. 

“I shall be off early tomorrow, Aunt Florence,’’ 
he said. “Don’t get up to see me off. Myra can 
give me a cup of coffee, and I can get my break¬ 
fast in the city.” 

.“But we shall see you down again tomorrow 
night, Nat?” Mrs. Dow urged, as he turned to 
leave the room. 

“I think not,” he returned, somewhat awk¬ 
wardly. “I shall have considerable to do. No, 
you needn’t expect me. ’ ’ 

“But when will you come? You know I would 
like to go on with that matter, ’’ said she, with 
such an evident feeling of helplessness and dismay 
that he stopped and looked at her, flushing slight¬ 
ly, and his decision changed at once, in self-re¬ 
proach at his own forgetfulness. 

“Surely, surely,” he reminded himself, with a 
little laugh and toss of the head at his own mis¬ 
take. “Why, of course, how could I have for¬ 
gotten that? Yes, assuredly I’ll come.” 

“But not if it’s not convenient,” said she, 
checking her anxiety with that almost pathetic 
waiving of her own claims occasionally seen in 
her now, and that was so unlike the half despotic 
rule she had once swayed, “don’t let me interfere 
with any of your own plans, if they are important. 
There is, you know, no absolute hurry about that. 
It is just a fancy of mine that I would rather 
have it done. I am glad,” added she, “if clients 
come in so well that you don’t have much spare 


128 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


time on your hands. Sitting and waiting for 
clients that do not materialize is the weary part 
usually for young lawyers. But then, waiting is 
always weary work.’ ’ 

“Yes, I will come without doubt ,’ 9 Nat said, 
again. “My business will keep as well as yours 
will. ,, He had shaken hands with each of his 
aunts already, and now offered his hand to Eliza. 
He could feel the small fingers tremble in his 
own as he took them, giving them a slight pres¬ 
sure as he did so—a slight thing in itself, but in¬ 
asmuch as it breathed forgiveness and amity it 
went straight to the girl’s sore and contrite heart. 
He returned to the door of the library a few mo¬ 
ments later in a mackintosh and hat drawn over 
his face to explain to his aunt that he should not 
turn in immediately, but would not be gone long; 
she must not lock him out. 

Eliza stood and looked out of the window of her 
room, thinking that it was all over now if it had 
not been before; she had forfeited forever even 
his friendly liking and regard. How is it we know 
our joys at full value only when we have lost 
them? And yet what heart awakened regrets the 
knowledge of itself bought at ever so high a price ? 
“You must be a discoverer to have discovered 
that I have depths, ’ ’ she had once said to him. He 
had given her a knowledge of the depths and 
possibilities of her own nature; those clear, glow¬ 
ing eyes had, as it were, warmed the statue to life. 
And she—how dared she, what was she, indeed, 
that she should requite kindness in that way? 
She was glad for the cold rudeness of which he 
had been guilty, and that she, in her turn, had 
something to forgive now. The burden of unkind¬ 
ness did not rest quite so heavily upon herself. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 129 


If it had not been for her cousin Florence, whose 
tactlessness had put her in snch a false light, she 
would never have been so little of a lady. “He 
must know I am of common blood,” she said to 
herself, in her mortified self-communings. ‘ 6 How 
could I be expected to have perfect manners? I 
must always love him,” she thought, with a cer¬ 
tain satisfaction in contemplating her own undy¬ 
ing pain and devotion that might not have been 
hers had she been quite hopeless. Whatever the 
barrier set between them she should always con¬ 
sider him her ideal: she thought in the words of 
Guinevere, “we needs must love the highest when 
we see it.” She loved this highest, the more abso¬ 
lutely that it was no cold abstraction, but warm 
with human imperfections and endearing human 
impulses. 

But these thoughts did not keep her awake. 
Sleep came to her as easily as it does when our 
state is one of deep dejection, and we only wish to 
escape thought and the misery of feeling. Physi¬ 
cal nature was too well prepared by the long walk 
in the wind not to overcome even the excitement 
brought by the incidents of the evening. 


X 


Nathaniel had lighted a cigar and gone out for 
his walk up the beach, carrying with him a new 
sense of the capriciousness and entire unaccount¬ 
ableness of all feminine nature. Yet the events 
of the evening had taught him the strength of his 
own feeling as nothing before had ever done. 

It had stopped raining, but the wind was still 
high, and the surf showed in a white spray at 
times dashing high among the rocks. A full moon 
shone out in momentary glimpses between the 
scudding, wind-driven clouds. Nathaniel paced 
back and forth in the night, finding his peace of 
mind more seriously disturbed than it had ever 
been before, as he tried to solve the mystery of 
Eliza’s rudeness. He felt that the words had not 
been carelessly spoken, that they did not show 
mere caprice, but rather they had given him the 
impression of having been uttered with the inten¬ 
tion, if not of wounding him, at least of repelling 
him and his interest. It seemed to him that she 
had done this intentionally, and that she must have 
heard something against him, something that had 
furnished her an excuse in her own mind for such 
action. What could it have been? That was the 
mystery. Could Aunt Florence and her tactless 
proposals have been at the bottom of it? But no, 
Nathaniel was loath to think that Aunt Florence 
could be in any way treacherous to himself. He 
could not believe that possible. 

The moon at this instant came out of the clouds 
and shone out resplendently. Nathaniel’s atten- 
130 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 131 

tion was diverted from his own preoccupied 
thoughts to the conditions around him. For the 
first time he noticed the gleam of a sail as a boat 
stood in toward the shore. He watched its move¬ 
ments with startled interest. He had a distinct 
view of it for a moment, with its sail closely 
reefed, before the moon was again rapidly 
eclipsed under a dark cloud. But the outline re¬ 
mained visible against the sky, and he could see 
that it was almost directly upon a great boulder 
known as the “elephant” from its form when its 
huge, barnacled sides were revealed at low tide. 
There was always a strong undertow around the 
big rock, and it was only in a placid sea that a 
small boat could venture too near it without dan¬ 
ger. He formed a trumpet with his hands and 
shouted an excited warning. 

“Keep off! There’s no good landing in here. 
You’re almost on those rocks!” 

For answer a faint response came to him above 
the noise of the wind and tide. Then, as an un¬ 
usually high wave came rolling in he saw the 
boat careen, and with the backward surge of the 
wave she seemed to be swept helplessly upon the 
rock. Then he heard nothing. 

Nathaniel remembered that an old dory was 
generally to be found not far from where he was, 
beached among the stones and tangled seaweeds. 
The search for this consumed a dreadful length of 
time, as it seemed to him, as he rushed up and 
down, fretting at the delay; but at last it was 
found and dragged to the water’s edge, pasting 
hat and coat aside, he ran his craft down into the 
frothing waves, sprang in and rowed rapidly in 
the direction from which he had seen the boat go 
down. 


132 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


It took only a few strokes to bring him within 
sight of the overturned boat, to which a man was 
still desperately clinging. The sky was bright 
enough as Nathaniel reached him for him to recog¬ 
nize the features of the man he had come to rescue 
as those of Martin, the strange gardener at the 
Dow house. The man was evidently in a state of 
great exhaustion from the long strain, and as 
with weak voice and teeth that chattered too much 
to make his speech clear, he tried to say something 
Nathaniel could only gather that his arm had 
been hit by the boom as he had been swept over¬ 
board, and that he could not use it. By an effort 
of strength that required all his own energies and 
skill the young man got him into his boat and then 
turned to row ashore. But now they seemed to 
have drifted out on a wide waste of waters, and 
he was utterly unable to locate the comparatively 
open stretch of beach from which he had started 
out. Several times he let his small boat rise on 
the crest of a wave, only to drift out again uncer¬ 
tainly as he divined that there were rocks ahead, 
and that the fate of the other boat would be only 
that of his own little craft. Almost spent with his 
exertions, he was beginning to lose courage, and 
to be swept aimlessly out toward the open sea, 
when a bright ray of light cast a sudden pathway 
over the water. Encouraged by this he pulled a 
few strong strokes toward the shore and found to 
his joy that they were in line with the open haven. 
A last effort of strength, a skillful avoidance of 
the rocky perils upon either hand, and an incom¬ 
ing wave landed them through the surf upon the 
sandy little strand. 

Once safely upon the shore he turned his atten¬ 
tion to his helpless charge, who had slipped to the 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 133 

bottom of the boat in a limp, nerveless beap. He 
was working over him when he became aware that 
a light was coming closer along the beach. As it 
shone full into his face he sprang to his feet, with 
an exclamation of astonishment. 

Eliza Jakway stood there by him. She had been 
awakened from her first sleep by that shout. It 
had seemed to her that she recognized Nathaniel's 
voice, and the remembrance that she had not 
known of his return to the house made her start 
up in instant response to what she feared might 
be his need. She was not timid in the sense in 
which a city girl might have been, and after 
hastily throwing on her clothing, did not stop to 
think of rousing any one to go with her; but, 
before leaving the room a sudden thought 
prompted her to set the lamp in the window to¬ 
ward the sea. It was the bright beams of that 
lamp that had streamed out over the waves, show¬ 
ing Nathaniel a safe way to the shore. Then Eliza 
hurried down to the woodshed, and having lighted 
a lantern that was kept there, had let herself 
quietly out by a back door, and started for the 
beach. 

When she came upon Nathaniel and his uncon¬ 
scious companion, she asked no questions, seem¬ 
ing to^ divine instinctively how it had all happened. 
Was it not Martin, whom Eliza had always de¬ 
clared had something tragical and sinister about 
him? No singular occurrence in which Martin 
had a part could really surprise Eliza. Instead 
of speaking, she lent her aid with a swift compre¬ 
hension of what was required, helping Nathaniel 
to chafe his hands until a first faint sign of life 
rewarded their efforts. 

Then for the first time she directly addressed 
Nathaniel. 


134 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 

“Shall I go to the house for restoratives'? 
Brandy or something?” she said. “Or shan’t I 
bring Dr. Fordyce? It won’t take me but a few 
moments.’ 1 

Nathaniel assented, and she flew away on her 
errand, going to Dr. Fordyce first, and fortu¬ 
nately finding him still up in his study, for it was 
not yet very late. On her way back she stopped 
to arouse Mrs. Dow, in order to have warm blan¬ 
kets made ready, as the doctor had advised. Mrs. 
Dow awoke to the emergency at once, and she and 
one of the maids started a fire, and were getting 
things in a state of readiness when the doctor and 
the other two, with Martin walking slowly between 
the doctor and Nathaniel, returned to the house. 

Mrs. Dow was standing at the door as they came 
up the walk, the light from inside outlining her 
figure. She had thrown on a warm red wrapper 
with black trimmings, and the rich color framed 
becomingly her noble dark head. Martin would 
have slunk away when he saw her, expecting to go 
around to his usual quarters, but she would not 
allow it. 

‘ 4 Bring him in here, Nathaniel,” she said. 
‘ 4 There is a spare room ready for him. He ought 
not to go to his room tonight. He may not be 
strong—he may need care in the night.” 

Hanging his head, he entered, though very un¬ 
willingly. The doctor followed him in and at¬ 
tended to his arm, as he had not been able to do 
so far, but after that was over, though meat and 
bread had been set out and he was pressed to take 
something, the man could not be brought to accept 
anything. He appeared to be still very weak, and 
Nathaniel helped him up to his room. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 135 


“Did lie tell you why he tried to do it?” Flor¬ 
ence Dow asked her nephew as he descended the 
stairs again. 

Nathaniel could not tell her much; he had had 
but little talk with Martin. 

“I have no idea that it was intentional. It is 
possible he may have been drinking, though. He 
told me he had gone over to Crow’s Head in the 
early part of the day, and that he started home 
this afternoon before the storm set in. He was 
making for Sprague’s Landing when the wind 
drove him on these rocks. I think he’ll be all 
right in the morning. His arm was a little 
bruised; that was the worst thing, but the doctor 
attended to that. ’ ’ 

“Strange,” she murmured. There was a bril¬ 
liant color on her cheek, and the light of excite¬ 
ment in her dark eyes. She had her enemy at a 
disadvantage; he could never refuse her now! 

“Well, Nat, I shudder to think what it would 
have been for us all to have lost you! We all owe 
devout thanksgiving for that!” she said, warmly. 
“You’ve done a good night’s work. That poor 
man was not ready to go to his last account, yet. 
It was a mercy that he was spared. Well, let’s all 
to bed. This has been an exciting episode. I am 
sure you will want to rest. ’ ’ 

Nathaniel had not had a chance to speak to 
Eliza until now. 

“The Lord must have inspired you to put that 
lamp in the window, Eliza,” he said, as he took 
her hand. “I had lost all idea of direction, and 
was being swept around at the mercy of the waves. 
I was fast losing courage, when it shone upon me. 
I have found now, where my beacon light shines.” 

Eliza did not answer. Her moist and shining 


136 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


eyes seemed to express that she was in accord 
with the joy of the occasion, bnt Nathaniel was 
disappointed that she said no more. Instead of 
that, she slipped away shyly, her sense of his 
heroic act making her feel herself at a greater dis¬ 
tance from him than before, while her own de¬ 
ficiencies were still so fresh in her mind. So she 
said good night and went quietly upstairs; but 
she slept like a tired child those few remaining 
hours until morning. 

Jarvis Marshall woke early to look around 
him at the pleasant, spacious room, where the sun¬ 
shine came in and lighted up the refined acces¬ 
sories to his unaccustomed sight. The room had 
once been richly furnished, and the old black wal¬ 
nut furniture still had an air of good tone. The 
blue and white hangings were fresh, there was a 
big chintz couch, in the window a comfortable re¬ 
clining chair. The man lay and looked around 
him with a new sense of his homeless and outcast 
condition in the world. It was a strange turn in 
the wheel of fate that he should be there, under 
the roof of Dow House. His enemy was heaping 
coals of fire upon his head. He lay there thinking 
for some time, his own ill-spent life rising up be¬ 
fore him as it never had until now. 

What a wasted life it had been! And yet, 
whose fault had it been but his own! He had tried 
often to lay his shortcomings at another’s door, 
but he knew now that he alone had been to blame. 
He could not make himself believe that he had 
been more sinned against than sinning. It had 
been cowardice, as well as, perhaps, some thought 
of revenge, that had carried him away to India 
when Florence Dow had been depending upon him 
to clear her from the terrible charge against her 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 137 


that had threatened her very life. It was true 
that he should have put himself in peril of the 
same charge if he had remained, hut it was none 
the less abject cowardice to have gone. And it 
had been a still greater cowardice that had kept 
him in hiding all these long years, not daring to 
claim the comparative comfort and respectability 
which might have been his if he had only appeared 
to accept them. The servants were astir below, 
preparing Nathaniel’s early breakfast; and he 
heard the wheels of the carriage sent to take the 
young man to his train some time later. His own 
resolution was suddenly taken. He felt that he 
could not remain here, under his enemy’s roof. 
A stronger access of the same moral cowardice 
that had been so influential in shaping his life 
made that seem the imminent danger to be 
avoided, and he started up and in spite of the im¬ 
pediment of his disabled arm, managed to dress 
himself hastily. Then he slipped quietly away, 
without being heard. When Mrs. Dow sent up to 
his room to inquire how he was, the bird had flown. 

Some hours later, Mr. Suydam the elder, uni¬ 
versally acknowledged as the lawyer of highest 
standing in Setauket, was just concluding a long 
interview with one of his clients. He had given 
most of the morning to the man, and had been 
drawing up some papers for him, among them a 
last will and testament disposing of the small, but 
enhancing property, of which the man was pos¬ 
sessed. The man had told him that he was think¬ 
ing of going on another voyage ; he was restless, 
he said. Mr. Suydam was too keen an observer 
of men and things not to understand something 
of the origin of this restlessness. But that was 
not his affair, after all. He had promised not to 
betray his eccentric client’s confidence. 


138 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


There was another point, however, upon which 
his judgment differed. In this he had the inter¬ 
ests of his client at heart. 

“But, my good man, the case has been tried, 
and the world is quite satisfied with the result/’ 
he remonstrated. “Why should you wish to 
open it up?” 

The man answered him with a downcast, sheep¬ 
ish air. Though far from deficient in natural ad¬ 
vantages, he had a shambling, ill-favored look, as 
if wanting in self-respect. 

“She would have it so. It troubles her. You 
see, women are fanciful. I want to satisfy her. 
It’s a notion, of course.” 

“A notion, certainly. I can’t see that you serve 
any good purpose by doing so. It’s against my 
advice, I tell you frankly. But if it’s a whim—a 
whim of yours as well as hers—as it is apparently 
—a salve to your own conscience—” 

“Yes, yes!—that’s it—I can die better content.” 

“But you don’t intend to die for these many 
years yet, my man! I hope so—a man as well 
fixed as you are now! You may marry and be 
happy yet. You had a close call yesterday, I know. 
You’re morbid about it. It won’t happen again. 
My advice to you is, acknowledge your identity, 
and take possession of what you have—give up 
this masquerading!” 

“Yes, that’s so—I’ll acknowledge my identity. 
Perhaps that is the best. But to have all this fixed 
will make my mind easy in case anything should 
happen, you know!—in case anything should 
happen. Now you’ll be sure and publish that de¬ 
position in tomorrow’s paper, Squire?” 

“Yes, and I don’t think there’s much danger of 
prosecution. You see an indictment can’t be 


JANSE DOTJW’S DESCENDANTS 139 


found against a man for a felony after five years 
in this state, and it’s over twenty in your case. 
I’m confident of my power to defend you in sucli 
an event, but I think you’re perfectly safe.” 

i ‘Well, you see to that deposition, Squire?” 

44 I’ll have it attended to—don’t fear!” the 
squire assured him, and they parted. Eliza Jak- 
way, who was driving through the town square, 
saw Mr. Suydam and received one of his courtly 
hows, but she did not notice the shambling figure 
of the man he was showing out of his office. 

Jarvis Marshall had other errands that morn¬ 
ing, while the exquisite autumn sunshine was 
lighting up the world all about him, and the towns¬ 
folk were going about their accustomed walks of 
peace and quietness, of eager hopes and fears, of 
petty, every-day interests. No one noticed the gar¬ 
dener from Dow House, always rather an eccen¬ 
tric figure, as he pursued his way, turning into 
one of the tortuous little lanes, which, as in all sea¬ 
port towns, led down among the docks and 
wharves. The little port was a place of such 
modest dimensions that you could step at once 
from the decorous, grass-grown residence por¬ 
tions of the town, where the white churches looked 
down at you from every intersection of streets, 
to the borders of the open bay, the near neighbor¬ 
hood of which was attested at most times by the 
persistent company of a compound of. ancient, 
nautical smells manifestly out of place in so re¬ 
spectable an atmosphere, and not to be accounted 
for until you raised your eyes and saw the row of 
tall masts in sight above the big trees that shut 
you in. Marshall’s walk was a short one, there¬ 
fore, from the lawyer’s office to the little building 
on the dock from which he had hired the boat in 
which he had met with disaster. He came to tell 


140 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


of its loss and to square his account with its 
owner; but it had been already reported that the 
dory was apparently but little injured, and had 
gone ashore on Boaring Bull, a small island that 
was little more than a reef, which was just off the 
coast near Harrison’s Point. His mind relieved 
on this score, Jarvis Marshall paid a liberal sum 
to cover all costs of salvage, and then, after a little 
more chat, and being condoled with on the injury 
to his arm, which he carried in a sling, he left 
the boatman. 

He started on his way through the South 
Woods. He felt very weak and feeble, and lurched 
in his. gait. He heard wheels coming, and drew 
back into the shadow of the trees. A carriage 
went by filled with smiling children. They were 
calling to each other, and pointed out a red 
squirrel that went scampering across the road 
and up the trunk of a maple tree. Marshall lay 
down in a retired spot, but through the branches 
of the trees he could still see a small piece of the 
road. He lay there some time. He saw Eliza Jak- 
way driving home from the village in the trap. 
She sat up straight on her seat, the clear color of 
health on her cheek, her dark eyebrows drawn a 
little as her thoughtful gaze was directed ahead, 
as if seeing something in the future. She looked 
young and happy, and never before had he seen 
the strong resemblance to another that smote him 
now. It was as if that other’s bright, courageous, 
happy self had appeared to him out of the dim 
outlines of the past. He watched her with linger¬ 
ing, fascinated gaze. Then he buried his face in 
his uninjured arm. She was gone when he lifted 
it again; the horse’s hoofs no longer sounded on 
the still air. “It is time to take my powder ” he 
said. 


XI 


Aunt Margaret had slept through the event of 
last night. Though highly indignant at first, that 
she had not been informed of such an exciting epi¬ 
sode, she now had the advantage of hearing it all. 
She listened with the most intense interest, and 
Eliza was made to go over and over again her 
part in the affair for her entertainment. The 
young girl showed unusual sweetness and good 
nature in humoring Aunt Margaret in this respect. 

“And so you can’t find Martin this morning! 
That’s odd! but, no doubt, he’s out somewhere 
about his work. I wonder if he can use his arm. 
It looks as if he must be all right after his duck¬ 
ing. It was a fortunate escape for him, poor 
man! ’ ’ 

“Yes, I think so; but I would like to know where 
he is,” said Mrs. Dow, with evident uneasiness. 
“I’ve asked Tom to look him up, but he hasn’t 
brought me any word yet.” Tom was the young 
negro who drove for Mrs. Dow, and took care of 
the one sorrel horse. “I thought his arm was 
quite helpless; I didn’t suppose he could do any 
work, for the present. I expect Dr. Fordyce over 
soon to see him. I wonder why I haven’t seen 
anything of father for the last five days. I’m 
afraid he isn’t well. He was talking of a fishing 
excursion, and possibly he went. I miss him so 
when I do not see him. I wanted particularly to 
ask his advice this morning. Eliza, I believe I’ll 
have you drive over and see how he is. Tell him 
I want particularly to see him.” 


142 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


Dr. Fordyce came in a little later, but finding 
his patient gone, he sat down for a few moments’ 
chat about the events of the previous evening. 
Eliza did not happen to be in the room, and as 
they were quite alone the time was favorable not 
only for her to take the doctor into her confidence, 
but also to consult him as to the state of her 
health. She confessed to a little heart trouble 
which was giving her some cause of anxiety; the 
doctor appeared to think it merely a sympathetic 
symptom, but prepared her some powders, say¬ 
ing that he would come in frequently to see her 
until he had studied her case; meanwhile, he 
warned her to guard herself against any special 
excitement. They parted after a long, friendly 
colloquy. Dr. Fordyce felt that he had never 
really known Mrs. Dow. He promised to come 
in again the next morning. 

Her cousin had some errands that she wished 
Eliza to do in the town, and the girl drove off in a 
light trap behind old Bingo, intending to do the 
marketing and bring back the morning mail. The 
old sorrel was a sorry contrast to the fine steeds 
that had years before pranced down the broad 
gravel sweep to the road, but he was a good 
traveler, and jogged along at a steady gait. It 
was a fair day, and warmer than would have been 
thought possible the night before. The pastures 
had grown light and bright as the foliage deep¬ 
ened, and seen through the dark trees as she drove 
along they were full of quiet toned, sombre beauty. 
The charm of the landscape brought to Eliza that 
grateful intrusion of the outside world that rouses 
us from selfish brooding with a voice of mingled 
rebuke and comfort. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 143 


The old part of the village, where the Dows still 
lived, and where theirs and the Sprague mansion 
had been built, was on a long, low point of land. 
They had stood among country fields then, and 
though much more built up now, the natural 
growth of the town had left it a mile distant from 
the business center. The little port seemed half 
asleep, as it always did, and Eliza’s errands that 
morning were varied by the usual trivial inci¬ 
dents. In consequence of the postmaster’s having 
come out and locked up the office while he went 
across the street to wait on a customer he had just 
beheld enter his shoe shop over the way, there was 
some detention in getting the mail. On being 
informed of his whereabouts by several interested 
and obliging lookers-on, Eliza went after him, as 
she had often done before. Whatever she did 
there were plenty of people looking on, village 
style, most of them familiar faces from girlhood, 
while she had known all the children since they 
could toddle. The photographer, in the door of 
his small shop where clocks were ticking and 
jewelry was hanging in the windows—callings 
never before known to affiliate, often found them¬ 
selves here brought into the oddest of unions, and 
represented in one individual—rolled his black 
eyes at her in a more odious way than common 
with him; and it was only because she obstinately 
pretended not to see him that he did not offer to 
tie her horse. 

She was performing this little service for her¬ 
self, and performing it with some fear and trem¬ 
bling, for Eliza was not a born horsewoman, when 
Mr. Suydam, the young lawyer, came to her relief, 
stopping for a moment’s exchange of talk and po¬ 
lite inquiries for Mrs. Dow and the rest. Eliza 


144 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


did not have many of these little social encount¬ 
ers; but she cherished as high an ppinion of Mr. 
Philip Suydam as of any young man in Setauket, 
and was aware that their meetings always left a 
pleasant impression, and were so frequent as to 
excite a suspicion, even in her own unconscious 
mind, that they were not entirely fortuitous. This 
preoccupation partly explained why it was that, 
when at the same time she returned the courtly 
salutation of Mr. Suydam, the elder, as he was 
showing out of his office a shabby client, a rough 
man with his arm in a sling, she should have quite 
failed to recognize the familiar figure of their 
own gardener. She did not forget her errand to 
Uncle Petrarch, and went there next, intending to 
reserve to the last the reward of a chance to look 
in upon her own home circle. Captain Jakway, 
being the oldest of several brothers, still occupied 
the old Jakway place. It was a comfortable old 
domicile of unpainted wood, placed gable end to 
the street, and with a deep garden in the rear, 
shut in by high board fences. Eliza found her 
uncle out there now, sunning himself on a wooden 
settle; he had been suffering from rheumatism, 
and was under strict orders to be out only when 
the sun shone. His house was kept, and well kept, 
for him by the wife of one of his nephews, a little, 
decided body, who was both kind and truly fond 
of the old man. Eliza’s cousin Chet, as he was 
called, was a young surveyor who had lifted him¬ 
self up to a good position, and was a general 
favorite in the community. Mrs. Chester Jakway 
had been a Sprague. 

Though this part of Suffolk had been mainly 
populated by the same settlers as those peopling 
the neighborhood coast, there were several of 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 145 


these old Dutch families that would appear to 
have migrated from King’s or Queen’s county, 
forming the nucleus of the village. It was com¬ 
monly said in the vicinity that all who were not 
Douws were Suydams and the rest were Jakways. 
This neighborly sarcasm, however, was an 
injustice to a fourth excellent family by the name 
of Sprague originally Sprang—due probably to 
their downfall in the world. It was well known 
that the Spragues, many of whom had gone west¬ 
ward, had more than regained any lost prestige 
in those new fields; but in the respect that I under¬ 
stand to be called into question by the aforesaid 
little current bon mot, they had done their duty 
to the town, having proved as prolific a branch as 
any of the rest. Livy Sprague had lived up to 
the family reputation, and already had a numer¬ 
ous flock; some of the tow-headed younger speci¬ 
mens of which were now playing around their in¬ 
dulgent grand uncle, in the garden. 

“Why, uncle, where did you get your rheuma¬ 
tism?” Eliza accosted him, as she saw that he was 
really rendered partly helpless by his affliction. 

“I’m glad you’ve come to scold uncle, Lizzie,” 
the decided little Mrs. Chet said. “I haven’t left 
him any peace for doing such a foolish thing, and 
at his age, too! And I think Chet’s just as much 
to blame as he is, ’cause he ought to have known 
better. Think of his going off: into the swamps 
fishing, during this wet spell, and at his age, too.” 

“Well, well, you women do exaggerate things 
most foolishly,” exclaimed the Captain. 
“There’s no use o’ goin’ on so about it. Man of 
my age must expect a little rhumatiz now and 
then. I’m sure I do. You see, Chet had to go on 
a surveyin’ expedition, and I thought I’d go with 


146 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


him, and we’d just make a little pleasurin' trip 
of it—go up to the ponds in Hempstead. And so 
we would, only we got caught in this bad spell of 
weather, and it twan’t no fun, I tell ye! We 
didn’t have no luck, either, ’less you consider it 
lucky to be left alive, the skeeters were so all- 
fired thick. We wouldn’t a’ had enough to eat if 
it hadn’t been for the frogs. We got along pretty 
well with frogs’ legs. Chet’d take a twenty-two 
rifle and shoot a whole mess of ’em. I could eat 
some white potatoes and a lot o’ frogs’ legs right 
now if I had ’em. ’ ’ Captain Jakway’s reminiscent 
air made Eliza smile. She gave him her cousin’s 
message. 

i ‘ She ’ll hev to come down here if she wants to 
see me, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ Olivy, there, she won’t let me 
go out.” 

Olivia resented this as a manifest injustice. 

‘‘It’s the doctor, Uncle Petrarch, you know,” 
she cried. ‘‘You ought not to put it all onto me, 
even if you don’t like it. I jest mean that doctor’s 
orders shall be carried out. ’ ’ 

.“Oh, yes, Livy, I know; you women do most 
ginally take the responsibilities of the universe 
right on your shoulders; and the smaller you be, 
not much bigger than a pint of cider, just like you, 
the more responsible you be. So you see how it is, 
Lizzie, I can’t come. Flo’ll have to come down 
and see me. Yes, it’s been a precious damp season 
and awful bad for rheumatics. It’s that comet, I 
guess. I’m disappointed we can’t have another 
clam bake; we counted on having one more; 
there’s a Rhode Island man here who was goin’ to 
get us up one. Touch a Rhode Island man on the 
subject—he don’t think there’s anybody else can 
equal them there! I’m sorry we can’t have it 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 147 


come off, but I’m afraid it’s too late now. He’s 
hanlm’ mealers over here, for a livin’, up to Miss 
Sticketts’s. Well, Elizy, you tell Florence she’ll 
hev to come and see me, this time. I ain’t ’lowed 
to go out.” 

Eliza promised, and started to go, feeling really 
troubled to see how Uncle Petrarch’s good spirits 
were ruffled by the double misfortune of his 
twinges and the enforcement of the physician’s 
orders, which he had never before in his life put 
himself out to accept literally. He woke up at 
the last moment to the sense that she was escaping 
him. 

“Hello! How are you and that young spark 
getting along?” he cried. Eliza did not answer; 
she considered the question intrusive, but she 
laughed as she got in and drove off. 

It was necessary for her to go home, for she 
seldom came into the village without doing that; 
and she was detained for some time by her mother 
and sisters. They had heard of the accident and 
rescue, and knew that the boat had been picked up 
on an island off the shore. Eliza drove back slow¬ 
ly through the South Woods, Bingo falling into a 
walk, in the freedom allowed him by his driver’s 
abstracted mood. 

It was while she was away that a tall, fine-look¬ 
ing young man turned in at the gate of Dow 
House. He ran lightly up the steps, and without 
waiting for the ceremony of pulling the bell, 
entered the front hall door, of which the screen 
was closed. Here he hesitated, and standing in 
the hall a moment looked about him with a pair of 
quick, intelligent dark eyes. What thoughts and 
memories crowded in upon his mind, who can say? 
for the objects were familiar ones from childhood, 


148 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


and the fine vistas at either hand into spacious, 
darkened apartments presented as he looked con¬ 
stant landmarks of old association. What he 
might have done next is impossible to tell, for at 
this juncture Mary, an old housemaid who had 
been long in the family, entering from the dining¬ 
room, came upon him there, and recognized him at 
once. 

“Oh, Mr. Frank, is it you?” she cried. “How 
long it is since I have seen you! ’’ And then she 
remembered that that name was one hardly to be 
uttered above one’s breath in the house, and hesi¬ 
tated in the joyful welcome she was according 
him. 

“Where is mother? Is she upstairs? May I go 
up to her?” asked Mr. Frank, rather peremptor¬ 
ily. He looked very handsome, and there was a 
certain triumph and excitement about him that 
did not escape Mary’s observation. 

“The mistress is up in her room. Sure, I sup¬ 
pose you may go up to her, Mr. Frank. But, per¬ 
haps, I had better run up and see,” said she, cau¬ 
tiously, wishing to spare Mrs. Dow the shock of 
too great a surprise. 

The young man flashed a glance at her; then 
said with quick pride, “Oh, no, I’ll just go up, if 
you say that she is there. Surely there can be no 
reason why she won’t see me.” 

“It’s only on account of the shock, Mr. Frank,” 
said she, with more decision. “You see, it’s very 
unexpected, and the mistress hasn’t been very 
well.” Then he stopped and looked at her, some 
anxiety^ gradually subduing the victorious pre¬ 
occupation of his mien. 

‘ ‘ She hasn’t been well, you say ? Well, I ’ll take 
care I don’t startle her. I think she has been ex- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 149 


pecting me,” and he went up rather slowly and 
tapped at his mother’s door. Mary, who added to 
the curiosity of her class a real sympathy and 
affection for her mistress, listened for a few mo¬ 
ments. She heard Mrs. Dow’s cry of joy and as¬ 
tonishment; then the closed door revealed no 
more. It seemed that this breach in the family 
that had been so sad a subject of talk, and that 
had made her mistress so unhappy, was about to 
be healed at last. Mary had the interest of the 
family too much at heart not to rejoice at this, 
and also was duly impressed by the fact that the 
event was an important one. As she alone was in 
possession of the knowledge of it, it was not 
strange that the next step with her was to distrib¬ 
ute the information impartially among the serv¬ 
ants. Gossip, as it appears, is a means of increas¬ 
ing one’s importance. If we alone have power to 
communicate any piece of intelligence, we become 
temporarily the owner of it. This being the case, 
it is certainly self-denying to withhold it, and it 
will seem no wonder that it is a virtue seldom 
practiced. 

In the large room where mother and son were 
sitting in the serene morning light, they were now 
engaged in animated talk. It was a proud day for 
the young man, who had seen his western schemes 
ripen so far toward success that he now felt that 
he could make restitution to the Dow estate of all 
of which he had once availed himself of the use. 
It was this that he was now about to do. 

“But can you spare this, Frank! Won’t it 
cripple you in your business! What resources 
have you besides ! ’ ’ asked she, looking flushed and 
troubled as he laid the cheque before her, and 
insisted upon her going over interest and princi- 


150 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


pal carefully with him. It was hard to accept it 
from his hand, and she began to falter a little now 
that this wrong upon which she had laid such 
stress was about to be redressed. 

‘ ‘ It might be if it were not conscience money, ’’ 
said he, quickly, “but I see my way of doing it 
now, and I don’t want to put it off. I want to 
clear away this cloud that has come between us. 
Oh, yes, mother, you shall have your pound of 
flesh , 9 9 smiling in a way to soften the ungenerous 
words, and yet not sparing the look of hesitation 
in his mother ’s face. 

“My son—my dear son, do you feel that way?” 
she said, though she smiled, too, in the bright, 
magnetic way so like his own. ‘ ‘ But, Frank, it is 
only justice,’’ she said, more firmly. “It is right 
and best for you. in the end that you should make 
this restitution. I am sorry if you have any hard 
feeling; but I do not feel as I would if I were to 
personally profit by it. It is nothing to me, ex¬ 
cepting as an abstract obligation for you,” but 
there was a plaintive, appealing cadence in her 
voice as if she feared he did not fully credit this. 

“Well,” said he, not veiling his impatience of 
this plea, “I don’t dispute that. I didn’t come 
here to dispute the matter. I know you consider it 
to be for my good, as a sort of propitiation to 
some offended power, whatever it may be. But we 
won’t go over that now. Let us put business 
aside, and think of something else. It is such a 
misfortune that money ever came between us.” 
It had been by his act that it had done so, but the 
widow was full of self-reproach and generous 
apology, strangely weak for her proud and deter¬ 
mined spirit, and did not try to defend herself. 
“Old Mary frightened me by saying you were not 
very well. You are looking well, mother.” 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 151 


“Do I look well, Frank? And yet I have 
thought I have had some warnings lately. ’’ 

“Warnings? Of what character?” anxiously, 
with a sudden fear that this mother, who it seemed 
that he had just regained, and whom he began to 
feel he had much undervalued, might be snatched 
from him now before he had an opportunity to 
answer to his conscience for the neglect of her 
with which it reproached him. “I hope, mother, 
nothing will ever come between us again,” cried 
he, with sudden affection, and he took her in his 
arms and kissed her as he had done when he came 
in. At this manifestation of tenderness, his 
mother’s strong lithe figure, still so trim and 
shapely in its prime of womanhood, was shaken 
by several deep sobs, and she shed tears a moment 
on his shoulder, attesting how hard it had been to 
deny the promptings of her heart all these weary 
months. She looked at him now with eyes of 
clinging love. He was her own son still, in spite 
of their differences and there was inexpressible 
comfort in seeing him again. There was much to 
tell him of what had taken place since they were 
last together, especially of the excitement and per¬ 
plexity that had been caused her by the discovery 
that Jarvis Marshall, her quandom lover and 
enemy, was in her service in the disguise of a 
gardener. 

“What in the world ever induced the fellow to 
come back here?” exclaimed Frank, much dis¬ 
gusted. 

“He says he came for my forgiveness. He has 
that readily enough. As if it mattered at this 
late day! But somehow the discovery, and his 
constant presence have helped to keep me re¬ 
minded of the past, and I have been less happy 


152 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


than usual. There has been no one I could talk 
to about it—Eliza has seemed more occupied with 
her own affairs than usual, more self-absorbed; 
and besides, I forbore to disturb her unnecessar¬ 
ily, she is so impressionable and imaginative. 
And I have been miserable in health. I have had 
several faint spells lately that frightened me. 
But, Frank, there is one thing I wanted to speak 
to you about. I thought I might make this com¬ 
ing of his a benefit in one way. Would it not be 
possible for me to have him draw me up a state¬ 
ment of that whole occurrence—you know, when 
your father died”—Mrs. Dow looked down, she 
was deeply agitated. “You know he was the only 
eye witness, except that old man, ’ ’ continued she, 
with a visible effort. 1 ‘ He could give me a sworn 
statement of the facts and I could publish them, ’ ’ 
she paused, and looked up beseechingly, struggling 
under a miserable shame as she did so. But 
Frank, who had turned red, frowned the whole 
thing down in his determined way. 

“No, Mother, it has all been forgotten. It does 
not affect us now”; shrinking, with the natural 
feeling of a proud man, from having this old sore 
again opened. “I think you err in judgment in 
opening up these old questions.” 

“Yes, you say just as he does! How can you 
know, either of you?” cried she, in a flash of pas¬ 
sionate despair. “It is easy for others to judge. 
I have borne it, but it has seemed at times as if I 
should sink under it. I have chafed under it so 
that it seems as if I could die content if I felt that 
my reputation was clear, that no one could speak 
ill of me. And I think of it for you, Frank, to 
remove this blot, this disgrace absolutely from 
your mother's name. It is right that old sores 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 153 

should be opened up, so that they may be healed. 
I advised with Nathaniel about it. He did not 
advise against it,” said she, still almost implor¬ 
ingly. 

‘‘Mother, you are morbid about it,” said Frank. 
“Do forget it! No one believes that now. And 
besides, I don’t think his deposition would carry 
the weight you expect. Those who have doubted 
once will be at liberty to doubt still. It will be 
trying to you—terriby trying and for what 
object f No, my darling mother, put it out of your 
mind. See that you are not imaginative, and do 
try to be happy.” He rose, as if to go. How 
elegant he was! She looked at him more closely 
as he stood before her, and for the first time no¬ 
ticed the unobtrusive perfection and fit of his 
clothes. Frank was always well-dressed. “And 
so Nat has been down here ? How is he ? I should 
so like to see the dear old boy! Why doesn’t he 
come around and see me in the city, I wonder? 
He might often find me there. Now, Mother, you 
mustn’t fancy yourself out of health. Cheer up 
and let us all be loving and take life for the best. 
Millie can’t come down and see you this evening, 
for there’s to be a—well, an affair over at the 
house; but she will the first thing in the morning, 
and I hope you and she will bury the hatchet, for 
my sake.” 

“Of course, we will, Frank,” said she, earnestly, 

‘ ‘ and I shall be very glad to see Millie. ’ ’ 

“Yes, and I hope you and she may like each 
other. You’ve a great many happy years before 
you yet—a woman with that color! ’ ’ Frank said. 
“It seems to me you look as well as you ever did 
in your life. Why, you are as pretty as a girl, 
mother mine. It has been a real deprivation not 


154 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


to have my friends know what a handsome mamma 
I’ve got.’’ 

“My dear boy, you’re getting more and more 
extravagant in your statements. I take it that’s 
western—that tendency to exaggeration, ” said 
the widow, playfully. Indeed, joy had given her 
a bright color, and her whole look and air were so 
irradiated and softened by love and contentment 
that she scarcely seemed the same woman that she 
had a short time since. 

He went away soon, as she could not persuade 
him to stay to luncheon, though he promised.he 
would bring his wife down early the following 
day; and he left behind him an invitation for Eliza 
and Nathaniel to join them in the festivities of the 
evening. When he had gone, the widow sat where 
she was, buried in thought, not noticing the lapse 
of time. This reconciliation had not brought her 
all the peace, the satisfaction she had anticipated. 

“Yes,” she mused, “it may be so. It will not 
do to expect to have our way in all things. Life is 
fragmentary, at the best, and those who see their 
plans most thoroughly carried out are not perhaps 
the most contented. ‘L’hoMme propose but he 
has to learn his feebleness to ‘dispose.’ It is all 
such a labyrinth of doubt when one thinks to take 
his destiny in his own hands. Perhaps Frank is 
right in saying, to what object? We cannot undo 
the past. ’ ’ 

So deeply did she become buried in these 
thoughts that it was not until the sounds and keen 
odors ascending from below told her that luncheon 
was nearly ready that she was reminded of the 
flight of time. She started up with a sigh, and 
hearing Bingo being driven around to the stable 
concluded that Eliza must have come in, and went 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 155 


through to her room, to deliver the invitation for 
the evening. 

Eliza was tired from her drive, and had thrown 
herself into a big chair. She was looking absently 
down the garden paths when her attention was 
aroused by her cousin’s entrance. Mrs. Dow’s 
cheeks were still flushed, her eyes showed the ex¬ 
citement which possessed her. Eliza had always 
felt an enthusiastic admiration for her cousin’s 
beauty, for the firm straight lines of her features, 
the resolute lips so delicately curled, the fire and 
openness of the large, beautiful black eyes; but 
now she saw this fineness of feature softened by 
the gracious sweetness that joy alone can impart. 

“What do you think has happened, Eliza?. I 
don’t believe you could guess. Frank has been 
here. I am reconciled to my dear boy, Eliza. And 
better than that, he has proved that his principles 
are sound, that he can and will act up to a high 
standard. I always maintained Frank had good 
principles, Eliza. You didn’t believe it, you tried 
to prejudice me, but I always had faith in him. 
You said several little things, I remember, that 
gave me doubts of him. ’ ’ 

“Oh, did I, Cousin Florence?” said Eliza, peni¬ 
tently. But she had a good memory, and Master 
Frank’s peculiarities had not been forgotten. 

“Well, never mind. Straws show which way 
the wind blows, and I did think for a while my 
child was lacking in a high sense of honor,” said 
this feminine Brutus. “But it was only boyish 
fun. Boys won’t be tied down to the seriousness 
of life, always. We must not expect it. But I 
think he will make just as honorable a man; and 
he wasn’t satisfied until he had paid off his debt 
to the last jot, the uttermost farthing.” 


156 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


The widow’s gaze strayed off to the sunny gar¬ 
den, where a large cat sat washing her face and 
blinking in the light. It all looked so still and 
beautiful. She had never lost capacity for the 
enjoyment of life, but it all appeared to her in new 
colors, with a freshness of charm. A familiar 
figure crossed her range of vision. It was Carl, 
the gardener’s assistant, and she was reminded of 
that other, who was her one incubus. She remem¬ 
bered that she had never told Eliza of the secret 
of his identity. She told her now, to the girl’s 
intense astonishment. How was it that she had 
never guessed it herself? It all seemed so clear 
and natural, that that should be the simple ex¬ 
planation of the mystery that had at one time so 
oppressed her. The shadowyness of it seemed 
much less as they talked it over, though she re¬ 
proached her cousin for not taking her into her 
confidence earlier, and thus saving her that alien¬ 
ated and bewildered feeling. So engaged were 
they in talking that Eliza almost forgot to tell 
about the old Captain’s rheumatism, and Mrs. 
Dow to deliver the invitation that had been en¬ 
trusted to her. 

“I had almost forgotten that Frank left an 
invitation for you and Nathaniel. Mr. Casgrove 
has two foreigners staying with him, gentlemen 
he became acquainted with in Washington when 
he was in office there. Frank said they intend to 
give a reception to the Setauket public this eve¬ 
ning—at least so I gathered—and he thought you 
vrould find it pleasant. ’ ’ 

Eliza, to whom the prospect was anything but 
welcome, presented several objections, but they 
were not valid ones, and, in this case, her cousin’s 
strength of will prevailed. She had the afternoon 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 157 


before her to put her muslin gown or her cadet 
silk in order, whichever she decided to wear. 
The choice finally fell to the silk; it did not seem 
quite warm enough for the muslin. So she set 
herself, with that lack of anticipation that makes 
exertion an effort, to get ready for the occasion. 
The widow tried to be as kind and helpful as pos¬ 
sible, offering to lend her anything she could, and 
coming in with her hands full of jewelry boxes, 
from the contents of which the girl chose but spar¬ 
ingly, feeling tonight an especial distaste to being 
decked out in borrowed plumage. Mrs. Dow went 
away that afternoon, driving over to see her 
father in the rockaway, with Tom driving old 
Bingo. She, too, drove back through the South 
Woods. Old Bingo generally went through the 
South Woods more than once a day, but now he 
shied at one place in the narrow road—a strange 
thing for that staid animal to do. Yet no horse is 
proof against shying, any more than we are proof 
against foolishness. Did he feel the presence of 
that silent form, to the nearness of which the rest 
of the wayfarers were so obtuse ? Mrs. Dow was 
fond of this piece of woods, and today struck by 
their beauty. They had never seemed more lovely 
in the depth of summer than now when monitions 
of its decay were all about. 


XII 


Unaware of any social formality in prospect 
for the evening, Nathaniel took the later train 
that night, coming in after they had all finished 
dinner. Being told by his aunt of what was ex¬ 
pected of him, he agreed to it willingly enough, 
and hastened his solitary meal in order to hurry 
upstairs to his room and get himself in readiness. 
Nevertheless, he was the first to appear below, and 
Eliza found him in the drawing room, standing 
before one of the Bow portraits as she came down 
the stairs. He was looking pale and worn, as if 
the long day had been a hard one; and in spite of 
his fresh toilette, Eliza was struck by the change 
in his appearance since she had seen him last. 
Yet he turned around to speak to her so much in 
his usual manner, that, much as she had dreaded 
the meeting with him, she was, at once, more at 
her ease. 

4 ‘ I can see how the Chinese worship their ances¬ 
tors, ’ * he said. ‘ 4 1 cannot help a feeling as I stand 
before old portraits that they are thinking about 
me, and have a sympathy and interest with what 
is going on among their descendants. Somehow, 
as I have been looking tonight at that picture of 
Miss Malsy, it has seemed to me as if she was 
excited. She seems to have something important 
to say. Come here where you can see better.’* 
He drew her off to a position where the faint 
light fell more obliquely on the quaint face and 
figure; the eyes did indeed seem looking with a 
sort of apprehensive stare. “It is not so notice- 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 159 

abk now, even to me,” he decided, not finding the 
effect he looked for. ‘ ‘ It is growing too dark. In 
this half light their eyes all seem to protrude, and 
it gives them a look as if they had some informa¬ 
tion in common they might impart if they would.” 

Eliza did not answer, at first. Rather an odd 
smile had come to the corner of her mouth, as if 
she found it humorous that he should have fancies, 
but they were all ready to go, and she hastened to 
the door. 

“That gives one such an eerie sensation,” she 
said, then, “it makes me wish to get out of their 
ken.” 

B was one of the loveliest of early autumn 
nights. What a velvety green world it seemed 
below, with a tinted evening sky above, with 
breaks in the blue, colorless, but of a pale bril¬ 
liance, opening in and in. Eliza walked along, 
her movements giving out a gentle rustle, with the 
cadet grey silk gathered up over glimpses of filmy 
lace, her whole person exhaling a sort of a gala 
atmosphere, difficult to resolve into its elements, 
for she. often wore the same gown to church, and 
her hair and few chiffons were simple enough. 
But, somehow, Nathaniel’s face wore less and less 
of its set look as he fell in beside her on the gravel 
path, and his eyes occasionally were lowered to 
her graceful, burnoosed head. 

“Yes, it gives one rather an uncomfortable feel¬ 
ing,” said he. “I often have that sensation about 
the old Judge’s picture, for instance, I know him 
to have been a fine old fellow, cut out on a good 
square pattern, and I should not like to be doing 
or thinking anything mean when those large eyes 
of his were following me.” 

“I didn’t know you were susceptible to such im¬ 
pressions,” Eliza said, smiling. “From what we 


160 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


know of them, though,” added she, “not many 
of them were people who in life one would need to 
dread reading one’s secret thoughts.” 

“You remind me delicately that I haven’t an 
ancestry to be wholly proud of. That is true. 
Some of them would make rather an assumption 
in judging anybody. But you know that the 
people with beams in their eyesight, though they 
are told not to, are the very ones to look for motes 
in their neighbor ’s eyes. The Dows, in the main, 
had more than their share of defects, and these 
not balanced by the generous qualities—generous 
vices, sometimes—that leaven more patrician 
shortcomings. There was always a strain of 
common earth in them, like the canals of their 
native Holland, clear enough on top, a smooth, 
sluggish stream made for utility, but with its own 
deep strata of mud at the bottom. In storms, it 
must be confessed that mud came to the surface. 
That is one reason why I do not want Dow House, 
even if I felt that I had any claims to it, which I 
do not. It is not a fortunate heritage. My aunt 
tells me that Frank was here this afternoon. Did 
you see him?” 

The conversation thus naturally reverted to 
Frank and his prospects. Nathaniel had showed 
tact in opening up subjects which without being 
forced, yet helped to do away with the constraint 
that would otherwise have been inevitable between 
them. He was dignified, careful, courteous, the 
pleasant, thorough gentleman it was his nature to 
be, but nothing now told her he remembered the 
evening before ; neither his anger at her rudeness, 
nor his gratitude for prompt and courageous ac¬ 
tion. Eliza was very meek and subdued, and 
moved along looking, under the burnoose of her 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 161 


white shawl so exquisitely pensive that her com¬ 
panion, indifferent as he looked, as he strode by 
her side, was in reality filled with the weakest of 
rejentings, and only longed that pride would per¬ 
mit him, if it lay in his power, to brighten that 
downcast face, and lift the head from its de¬ 
pressed and unconscious drooping, even should it 
be done at the sacrifice of what an artist would 
consider the penitential grace of her pose. 

Mr. Casgrove’s house was brightly lighted as 
they went up to it. Carriages were rolling up to 
the door, and leaving their occupants, while 
groups of people on foot were proceeding up the 
trim paths that led through the lawn. The walk 
with Nathaniel had done something to dispel 
Eliza’s dislike to entering the crowded rooms, by 
rendering even the encounter with so many 
strangers a secondary consequence; and she had 
certainly never mingled in Setauket society under 
more favorable auspices. They were affably 
greeted by their host, and received with a gay 
warmth by Frank and Millie. The latter was 
everywhere, beautifully dressed in white, and as 
brilliant as a butterfly in a parterre, Frank said, 
appearing much amused at his wife’s shining with 
such contrasted radiance against the dull back¬ 
ground of the mixed provincial and suburban elite. 
“I verily believe Millie considers them a more 
intelligent variety of cabbages it pays to shine 
before,” said he to Nathaniel, laughingly. 

The evening was about like most such social 
affairs, a crush, with its comical or disagreeable 
side, as one chose to see it, or a delightful and 
memorable gathering, according to the “Setauket 
Daily Banner.” The two foreigners, a stout 
Austrian with a full white moustache, and his 


162 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


traveling companion, a youngish man who had 
been attached to one legation or another since his 
boyhood, and had been kept much of the time in 
Washington, were both well acquainted with the 
country, and in sympathy with their surround¬ 
ings. They had been availing themselves for the 
last few days, in company with their host, of what¬ 
ever sport or objects of interest the island af¬ 
forded, from bluefishing off Montauk Point, to a 
glance at the antiquated quiet and picturesqueness 
of the Hamptoms. These last furnished sketches 
for the pencil of the younger man, and their ex¬ 
periences, fresh and entertaining as they ap¬ 
peared to have been, had given them plenty of 
topics of conversation. Mr. Maas, a Swiss, was 
large, dark and thin, with a somewhat spotted 
face and wore glasses. He made himself a de¬ 
voted shadow of the gay little Millie; while Eliza, 
after talking for some time with the short and 
elderly count, found herself, without knowing how 
she got there, looking at the rare and curious 
articles with which the room was so filled under 
the auspices of their distinguished host. To her 
relief, he proved to be a simple mannered, grey¬ 
haired man, with a face seamed and worn with the 
troubles of a rather sad domestic life, and the 
stirring and wearing excitements of a long public 
one. Frank and Nathaniel had gone off by them¬ 
selves to talk, and especially to discuss the ques¬ 
tion of Jarvis Marshall’s return, and of what step 
should be taken in regard to it. 

‘ ‘ Confound the fellow! ’’ Frank said. ‘ ‘ I meant 
the first time I saw him to send him about his 
business. The miserable, cowardly sneak! I al¬ 
ways thought he ought to be lynched . 9 9 

“I came down tonight to carry out your 
mother’s wishes,” said Nathaniel, “and drive the 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 163 


fellow to a statement. But when I found that we 
were coming over here I thought that it would 
be just as well to see you and get your ideas about 
it. I wanted to know what you thought best. 
Don’t you think he ought to make her that repara¬ 
tion ? ’ ’ 

Frank Dow still seemed to think this unwise. 

“Why open up the subject?” said he, as he had 
told his mother. ‘ ‘ I think it will be very exciting 
to Mother, and what end will be gained? I don’t 
believe that anybody whose opinion she need care 
for connects the idea of guilt with her now, even if 
they ever did. There’s not a woman more re¬ 
spected in Suffolk County than she. No, I’m not 
friendly to this idea at all. I don’t advise it. 
Still, if she has set her heart on it, and you ap¬ 
prove of it, of course, I shan’t interfere. ’ ’ 

After the rooms had thinned out and the greater 
part of the company had gone, Millie, relieved 
from the duties of entertaining, and still accom¬ 
panied by Maas, came over where the two cousins 
sat together. 

“I think it was all quite a success,” said she, 
as she arranged the lilies in her corsage; the arti¬ 
ficial atmosphere had wilted them until they 
drooped in the most artistically limp manner, so 
Maas said. “The people all seemed to enjoy 
themselves,” continued Millie. “Don’t you think 
so?” 

Maas had stopped to pick up the fan she had 
dropped. 

“As much as Americans ever do enjoy them¬ 
selves, perhaps,” he rejoined. There was an odd 
bright intelligence in the dark eyes behind his 
spectacles. “The people in this country do not 
know how to do that, I have often thought. ’ ’ 


164 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


“Oh, Mr. Maas, I thought you liked Americal” 
remonstrated she. 

“Yes, so I do, hut I think you have that grave 
fault, you and the English; but you are worse than 
the English. You will have to learn to enjoy as 
you grow older and wiser. It is there that your 
nation lacks. What do the most of you live for? 
I confess I don’t see. You look forward too much. 
Herbert Spencer says that of you. And yet, so 
large an admixture of the German element ought 
to make a change in that in time, and I think it 
will. ’ ’ 

“But we have something to look forward to,” 
she objected. “We are not ground under tyranny, 
you know. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes, that tyranny! Yes, you have possi¬ 
bilities, but the present is something. Your own 
philosopher tells you that it is a king in the dis¬ 
guise of a beggar.” 

“But one ought not to live for mere enjoy¬ 
ment,” said she, rather at a loss, but sticking to 
the old creed we all learn as patriotically as 
though she had not crossed the ocean a number 
of times. “We are too serious for that.” 

“Ah,” said he, smiling, “but this is the real art 
of life. Don’t you know what Horace said?” 

“No,” she confessed, shaking her head, “but 
Horace was an epicurean. Surely, you do not 
advocate his ideas ? ’ ’ 

1 i I didn’t know you were such a little Puritan, ’ ’ 
he laughed. “Now, see how it is: even a lively 
lady like yourself has this persuasion. But you 
are all tinctured with Puritanism. You are too 
conscientious. It is narrowing. You will find a 
golden mean, sometime.” 

Millie did not understand this as well as his 
compliments. 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 165 

“That is the way all you strangers say, but I 
don t see that you show us anything better/’ she 
finished, with a slight, smiling pout. The two 
young men had been listening amused. She 
turned to Nathaniel. “I have something to tell 
y°u, M said she, “that will surprise you. Nettie 
Stone is about to be married.’’ 

* * That’s an. old story, ’ ’ said he, imperturbably, 
leaning back in his chair and looking up at her. 
“Can’t you tell us news?” 

“What, did you know it?” said she, rather 
chagrined. “I didn’t suppose you did. Why 
didn’t you tell me? I had heard some rumors— 
in fact, I knew she was engaged—but do you know, 
I’d got it into my head it was to you.” 

“Do you know you shouldn’t get mere supposi¬ 
tions into your head?” said he, looking amused at 
her key of astonishment and pique. He spoke 
jestingly, but his eyes fell upon Eliza Jakway’s 
face as she stood near examining some tiger’s 
claws mounted in gold that Mr. Casgrove had 
brought from the East, and he was struck by the 
look of bright, surprised interest, by the sudden 
glow of relief, of hope, as it were, that lighted it. 
She was looking at him, but, as his eyes met hers 
she glanced away immediately, as if the crossing 
of their gaze had been a mere accident. It was 
only by a side flash of intuition, of revelation, that 
he connected that look of hers with the conversa¬ 
tion that had just taken place. He looked at her 
again quickly, penetratingly, and this time he saw 
that she had grown a rosy red. He wondered 
about that look, that deep blush. A glow stole 
around his own heart as a possibility suggested 
itself to his conjectures, to his nerves. He joined 
only fragmentarily in the talk of the rest, while 
these speculations were filling his brain. 


166 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


“That's so, little woman," Frank had said. 
“You’re rather too apt to jump to conclusions." 

“I plead guilty in this case," she told him. 
“What poor woman doesn’t expect to be told that 
she’s illogical? Of course, we are all always 
jumping to conclusions. As for Nettie, I am so 
vexed with her. I shall never forgive her. It is 
not friendly of her to keep me so in the dark. ’ ’ 

Mr. Casgrove had made the tiger claws a pre¬ 
text for the story of the hunt in which the animal 
had been captured, in which he had participated. 
Eliza listened apparently with the utmost interest. 
Her host was quite taken with her, while the 
sweetness of her look caught Maas ’ eye, gleaming 
through his spectacles. How lovely some of these 
American girls were, not only those in the whirl 
of fashionable life, but some of these wildwood 
flowers to be met with in out-of-the-way places! 

As Eliza and Nathaniel started to go, the rest 
of them followed them out upon the lawn, to see 
if perchance they might see some of the shooting 
stars, of which there was rumored to be that night 
a fine display. The night was unusually fresh 
and fragrant, and the trees seemed to grow low 
and leave unembarrassed the high skies, thickly 
sown with the silvery orbs, beginning to pale their 
fires under the light of the rising moon. One ex¬ 
ceptionally brilliant meteor rewarded them by 
slowly sailing down the purplish vault of the 
heavens. 

They fell to discussing the phenomenon. Mr. 
Casgrove continued his conversation with Eliza. 

“These planetary asteroids, or shooting stars, 
as I understand it, bring from the regions of space 
some electro-magnetic elements that excite this 
friction on reaching our atmosphere." 


JANSE DOIJW’S DESCENDANTS 167 

Eliza was thinking of her walk home with 
Nathaniel. Mr. Casgrove might as well have been 
talking Greek. She was not aware how cordially 
she accepted the invitation he extended to her to 
drive with himself and Mrs. Frank some day. It 
was a prospect that she would once have regarded 
with little else than horror. 

“How strange it seems,” said Frank, “that 
stellar heat cannot only he felt, but measured. 
It has been measured by the astronomers at 
Greenwich. They discover that those stars that 
emit a white or steely light give less heat than 
those with red rays.” 

“ ‘His soul was like a star and dwelt apart,’ ” 
soliloquised Millie. Maas looked at her as she 
stood with her face upturned to the night. It did 
not trouble Frank that there was a little flirtation 
going on here. Nathaniel was looking for the 
pleiades, the ‘ 4 Mariner’s Stars ’ ’ as they have been 
called from the rudest ages. He said they were 
his stars. 

“Your lucky stars,” said Frank, lightly. “I 
am glad if you have any. ’ ’ 

“It is you who have those,” said his wife. 

Nathaniel had strayed away from the group in 
his impatience to be gone, and Eliza now joined 
him, saying goodnight to them all. Millie prom¬ 
ised that she and Frank would be down the first 
thing in the morning. What had happened to 
Eliza as they started off? She was as gay as a 
lark, and it seemed to Nathaniel that he should 
never have an opportunity to speak. His chance 
came at last. 

“Curious idea Millie got in regard to my 
friend, Miss Stone,” he observed. “Did she ever 
say anything to you about it?” 


168 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


“Yes, she told me some time ago that yon were 
engaged to her, or that she thought you were. I 
told her I should congratulate you immediately, 
but, somehow, I never got the chance.” 

“Did you believe her? Could you believe her, 
Eliza?” 

“Why not?” said she, in an unsteady voice. 

“Why not? I should not think you would ask 
that? I don’t believe I should have had so little 
faith in you. How could you think such a thing? 
All that you have seen of me would contradict 
such a report.” But Eliza did not answer. 
“Eliza, be frank. Have I conducted myself to¬ 
ward you as an engaged man, or do you do me the 
injustice to suppose that is my idea of honor?” 

“I have no great knowledge of how engaged 
men do conduct themselves,” Eliza returned, 
tremulously. ‘ ‘ But surely, we are taking it more 
seriously than the question warrants,” with a 
great effort at ease and lightness. “I really meant 
to say something a little joking and pleasant— 
people often rally their friends on these reports— 
and you seem quite vexed.” 

“Vexed! What a word that is, in such a con¬ 
nection! You impeach my whole character, and 
then wonder that I am vexed! And that miserable 
little innuendo made you avoid me, made you 
treat me as you did last night, so that I scarcely 
closed my eyes after it; no wonder, when you 
thought me guilty of such baseness—such false¬ 
hood ! Yes, that was the word you used, I remem¬ 
ber it now. So that was the cause of your cold¬ 
ness?” 

“Not quite that,” confessed she, with agita¬ 
tion. “Or, at least, not that at all. I have no 
right to resent that. But Cousin Florence had 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 169 

been talking to me and I was afraid had been 
talking to you. I didn’t intend to be rude, though 
1 know that I was. I had no motive, ” explained 
Eliza, confusedly, adding with more spirit, and an 
arch smile, “you know the only person we ever 
allow to act without a motive is ourselves.'’ 

“Ah, indeed, I suspected Aunt Florence’s 
agency. Poor woman, she meant well enough. 
-But I was determined I would know your motive 
m pushing me off so cruelly, for I was sure it was 
not caprice and that you must have one. Dearest, 
you know I love you, but you can little guess how 
deeply or truly. Eliza, I know I am a bold man to 
ask you, for I know you like solitude—” 

“Oh, Mr. Dow, please don’t! I was so horrid 
then,” cried Eliza, but she did not withdraw the 
hand he held so firmly in his own. 

“Quite horrid, Eliza,” he assented, “but not 
Mr. Dow, if you please. Say ‘yes, Nathaniel’ to 
the question you wouldn’t let me ask you, and you 
shall be forgiven for that speech, though I grant 
it was a very impolite one. ’ ’ 

It is not necessary to record Eliza’s answer, ex¬ 
cepting .to say that Nathaniel was not doomed to 
disappointed hopes. How overjoyed Mrs. Dow 
would have been had she known of this result. 
But alas! life is indeed fragmentary. Our dearest 
hopes and most earnest purposes are oftenest in¬ 
complete. Those words of Mrs. Fordyce’s had 
been prophetic ones. It had been appointed by 
that power that governs and shapes all things, and 
that sets a boundary to our brief and troubled 
earthly existence, that she was never to know of 
this consummation of a dear desire, just as she 
was never to realize the wish to see her name 
cleared in the sight of all men from blot or stain, 


170 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


never to know the comfort of feeling herself 
proved entirely innocent. 

The night, for it was now near the small hours, 
was warm and pleasant, and the lovers strolled 
along slowly, and lingered long on the veranda, 
with the sound of the incoming tide in their ears. 
But there was a freshening breeze coming up as it 
turned toward morning, and Eliza shivered a little 
before they went in, parting in the hall. She left 
the close clasp of Nathaniel’s arms, and with his 
kiss still warm upon her lips, ran up to her room 
with a light foot; but in passing Mrs. Dow’s door, 
she stopped a moment, and laying her hand on the 
knob, stood listening. What a day of events it 
had been! It had not been so many hours before 
that the widow had come to her to share with her 
a matter of rejoicing, in the reconciliation with 
her son. It seemed to Eliza that she must make 
known her own happiness, must share with this 
kind and sympathetic friend the knowledge that 
she knew would give her so much satisfaction. A 
slight pang of regret at having so resented her 
interference and thrust aside her kindly intentions 
made her only the more anxious to do this. She 
waited a few moments, but hearing no sound with¬ 
in, she decided not to disturb her. 

At breakfast time the next morning, as their 
mistress did not appear at her usual early hour, 
one of the maids was despatched to her room. 
The result struck a chill, as it was communicated 
quickly over the house, to every heart the old roof 
sheltered. Soon a sorrowful group stood sad and 
silent, excepting for the loud sob of the servants, 
as they wept and wrung their hands, and the more 
controlled grief of the others. Eliza had laid her 
head on the pillow, and mourned, in the first great 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 171 


shock of surprise and sorrow; but her hand was 
in Nathaniel's firm, strong one as he stood beside 
her, and that clasp was full of help and solace. 
He must be all the more to her now that she had 
lost her friend and benefactress. Guilty or inno¬ 
cent before the world, the widow Dow lay dead. 

The doctor had been there, and all necessary 
steps had been taken, and in the first bewilderment 
the passage of time had been scarcely noticed, 
when a carriage drew up at the gates of Dow 
House, and a laughing little lady in a flower- 
crowmed hat, carrying a struggling white Pome¬ 
rania dog, got out and walked up the gravel walk 
to the front steps. The dog was quite an armful, 
and her movements were further embarrassed by 
the gambols of Tiger, as he frisked and bounded 
by her side. 

“Your big dog will eat up my poor little Tony. 
See, they are determined to fight! It is all I can 
do to hold him,” said she to Eliza Jakway, as 
brought by the tumult, she appeared in the door. 
And it was thus that Mrs. Frank Dow came home 
to the house that was henceforth to be her own. 

Eliza Jakway seemed to have grown in 
womanly dignity, in firmness of character in this 
one night. She acquitted herself well beneath the 
active responsibilities that had been laid upon her 
young shoulders. Messengers had already been 
despatched to Mr. Casgrove’s, but had not reached 
there when Mrs. Frank left. As a consequence 
Frank almost immediately followed his wife. A 
notification to Captain Jakway had not been for¬ 
gotten, and he soon joined the little band that 
gathered together in the hushed house, while the 
lovely September day was outside, with the low 
sun shining over the green fields, the dry leaves 


172 JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 


blowing and rustling along the roads, the wind 
stirring in the branches. The links of kinship 
seemed to contract and bind them all more closely 
together in the presence of this closed life, appeal¬ 
ing to them with all its unfinished pathos. Aunt 
Margaret had lived through a good many sudden 
shocks, a good many sorrows. She took it quietly. 
It was a month of tragedies. There were always 
three deaths in a neighborhood, she said. 

There was a poignant regret in the feelings of 
some of them as they sat there, but those who had 
most need to feel remorse were of a nature and 
temperament to have it but brief. The life thus 
cut off in its pride and strength of womanhood 
seemed different now that it was ended. They saw 
the beauty of it as they had never seen it before; 
that sudden death had blended the stormy period 
of existence into singular and unlooked-for con¬ 
sistency, and rounded it into a sort of complete¬ 
ness. We may well talk of the perspectives of 
history, when we see so short a time work a trans¬ 
formation in our capacity of vision. 

A profound sensation was caused later in the 
day when Jarvis Marshall’s confession in the 
columns of the morning paper was read in connec¬ 
tion with the fact of Mrs. Dow’s sudden death, 
and the singular nature of the coincidence was 
fully realized. But the impression was intensified 
to a thrill of still deeper interest when the South 
Woods yielded up its grisly secret. “He told me 
he was going away on another voyage. I did not 
understand the poor fellow. It will be a long voy¬ 
age,” said Mr. Suydam. He lost no time in com¬ 
municating with the family in regard to his own 
connection with the affair, for he had a document 
in his keeping of some importance to them. The 


JANSE DOUW’S DESCENDANTS 173 


will of Jarvis Marshall had left his share in the 
stone quarry which he and Clinton Nicholls had 
owned together unreservedly to Florence Dow, 
“her heirs and assigns, forever,” and it would 
naturally revert to Frank Dow, who was also the 
heir to the Dow estate. This was as Nathaniel 
would have it, and those of his name who counted 
upon his assistance in breaking the will of Thomas 
Dow and asserting a claim to the property found 
no support in their project. Frank Dow did not 
intend to come down into the country immediately, 
and Aunt Margaret and Eliza lived on there for a 
time. When the funeral was over, and they began 
to arrange their household, a new gardener was 
to be found, and it was decided to take back the 
penitent Sandy. Dr. Fordyce strongly advised 
this; as for that other, he never had had any idea 
of gardening, he said. Mrs. Dow never would 
hear of it, but he had always told her that. 

Frank Dow has been successful in business, and 
Dow House is now so greatly modernized you 
would not recognize it. Eliza and Nathaniel were 
married in the spring. Captain Jakway, not to be 
outdone in sagacity by the other prophets, averred 
that he was not a particle astonished when he 
heard of their engagement. 

“Yes,” said the Captain, wisely, “I knew it. I 
ain’t astonished. After I see two young people 
goin’ round in the evenin’ sort of catamaran 
fashion, I read the handwriting on the wall—I 
know what will come of it.” 


THE END 



















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